


The death of all hope

by DorotheaV



Category: The Newsroom (US TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-24
Updated: 2019-12-27
Packaged: 2021-02-17 21:48:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 23,875
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21550300
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DorotheaV/pseuds/DorotheaV
Summary: A nightmare brings Will to his knees.
Relationships: Will McAvoy/MacKenzie McHale
Comments: 41
Kudos: 59





	1. Chapter 1

A cacophony of sound. Wood splintering. Metal water barrels flying through the air as if they weigh nothing. The sky full of falling timber. He rolls to his side, his arm bent awkwardly beneath him. All he can see is a wall of fire—there is nothing else. It sears his throat, singes the hair on his forearms and scorches his mind.

Terror blinds him.

He can’t breathe.

_“Oh God—”_

Waves of panic ebb and flow as the act of inhalation grows ever more impossible. But soon, the agony of his empty lungs becomes less than the torment of attempting to fill them. Something shiny flashes across his vision, but terror slows his reflexes. In the end, he's not quite quick enough to jerk himself clear. The object disappears from view, and he feels a sharp, stabbing pain beneath the ribs.

His entrails, spilling into the dirt.

The pain.

The pain.

Ferocious, terrifying pain unlike any he’s ever known.

He fights to ease it, strains to fill his lungs, but the heat and smoke only sear them. No air can penetrate his constricted throat and his lungs will not expand, can only scream their protest.

The rushing in his ears intensifies, thrumming louder, murmuring, calling to him.

_“Billy!”_

The next words are unclear, but the tone of them—urgent, desperate and utterly terrified—catch him and hold him aloft. They thwart his escape and prevent his sweet slide into the blackened abyss of unconsciousness.

_“Where are you?!”_

He gasps in confusion and futility, but the harder he struggles the more insistent the voice grows, compelling him to make his location known.

 _“Billy. Help me.”_ The words are choked. Desperate. 

And then there is only silence.

He is grievously injured—dying—and he is alone.

No, not he— _she_.

 _She_ is alone.

_Dying._

“Mac!”

His muscles propel his body upward and his fingers claw at the sheets as he opens his mouth to scream, but his larynx is paralyzed. 

Then something loosens, breaks free, and the only sound in the room comes from Will's shattered lungs as his mind convulsively replays one word:

_MacKenzie._

He reaches for the phone.

===

“Charlie,” he stutters, barely able to get the word out over his pounding heart. “It’s Will.”

“What time is it?”

Will looks at his bedside table. The numbers on the digital display barely register but muscle memory makes him spit them out. “After three. I need you to call the head of CNN’s foreign bureau. MacKenzie—” He stops. He knows he sounds like a lunatic but the fear, the sound of her voice, the terror in it, compels him to press on. “I need to make sure she’s okay.”

“Have you been drinking?”

Will ignores him. “I think she’s in trouble, Charlie. I think something happened. I had a dream. A terrible dream. There was a fire. She was alone. _Dying._ Please. You’ve gotta call Fred—Davis—that’s his name, right? Fred Davis?”

“Will, it was a bad dream. I’m not waking the head of international coverage just because you had a fucking nightmare.”

“Charlie—you didn’t hear her voice—”

“Neither did you.”

Will rubs his fingers tiredly across his forehead. “Look, I know how this sounds but I think she’s in trouble. If you won’t call him, I will. Just give me his number, will you?”

There is silence on the other end, and then: “Why do you care?”

Will pauses. _Are you out of your mind?_ “What do you mean why do I care?! I broke _up_ with her, Charlie!” he exclaims. “That doesn’t mean I want her dead!”

“She isn’t _dead,_ Will. It was a _dream_. We’d have known if something happened. Someone would have called.”

“Not if they were trying to keep it quiet.” He runs his fingers angrily over his face, the day-old stubble on his chin rough against his fingers. “Goddammit, Charlie. We’re wasting _time_. Are you going to give me the fucking number or not?”

“No. Have some warm milk and go back to sleep, Will. You’ll feel better in the morning.” He hangs up. Will looks at the phone in his hand, stunned.

The dream’s tendrils refuse to loosen their hold and he knows it’s because she’s in trouble. He can feel it. He’s never had a nightmare like this. Never. It had been so real. So terribly, terrifyingly real. It wasn’t _just_ a dream. The acrid taste of bile in his throat, the stench of smoke in his nostrils, spurs him to action.

Who does he know at CNN? Besides MacKenzie? More importantly, whose cell phone number does he have? His mind casts about ineffectually until it hits on a name: Walt Mathis. Former drinking buddy and White House press secretary. Current … what? Politics. U.S. politics. Not the foreign bureau, but he’ll know who to call. _Walt will help. Walt will tell me …_

Wait.

_Walt will tell me to fuck off._

Will casts back, trying to remember the details. They’d been drinking and Walt made a move on a waiter who wasn’t interested. Will had been forced to intervene, embarrassing Walt in front of their buddies. That was—what—two years ago? He hadn’t spoken to him since. Shit. Who else? Anyone? Again, he looks at the clock.

3:17 AM. 1:17 PM in the Middle East. Was she eating lunch when it happened? Interviewing some terrorist? There were wooden tables in the foreground. He remembers seeing them. Right before the room exploded into flames.

Will stumbles out of bed and heads to his laptop. Walt. He has to call Walt. Where the fuck is his number? _Mathis. Mathis. MacKenzie. MacKenzie. Please, Mac. Please. Please be okay. I hate you, but I love you. Please be okay. Please._ He starts going through his contacts.

\---

“Fred? It’s Charlie Skinner. I’m sorry to wake you, but—”

Fred cuts him off. “I can’t talk now, Charlie. I’ve got a situation here.”

“I won’t take up much of your time. I’m trying to get some information about one of your embeds. MacKenzie McHale.”

There’s dead silence on the other end of the line.

“Who told you?”

“Is she okay?”

“Jesus Christ, Charlie, who _told_ you?! I gotta shut ‘em down before someone else gets killed!”

All the color drains from Charlie’s face. _Oh God_. _Please no. Not MacKenzie. Not—_

“She’s dead?”

“I’m hanging up, Charlie.”

“Goddammit, Fred. _Tell_ me! Is she dead?”

Silence. And then, “She is. How did you find out?”

“Oh, Jesus.” _Not MacKenzie. No._ And then he’s assaulted by the memory of her striding into his office four years ago, obliterating her competition as she outlined her plans to raise _News Night_ from number four to number one. Full of verve and absolute certainty about what she wanted _News Night_ to be. A true visionary, that one. A sweet, lovely, tender, kind-hearted girl who’d fallen in love with her anchor. Even if the anchor had forgotten it at the end.

_Not MacKenzie. Will will—Will will—_

He doesn’t want to think about Will, but images of his protégé’s face assault him. The dark circles that have ringed his eyes for the past four months—ever since he threw her out of his life. The sorrow the veneer of sarcasm can’t quite conceal. And his voice, the abject terror in his voice when he’d begged Charlie to call Fred. _Oh God._ He swallows. “You sure it was her?”

“Her ID was on the body.” Fred lowers his voice. Commanding, deadly serious. A Marine, just like Charlie. “Now tell me who told you.”

Charlie forces himself to speak over the lump in his throat. “Her ex-boyfriend.”

“How did he find out?”

Charlie pauses. “He had a nightmare.”

“A nightmare? Come on, Charlie. You can do better than that.”

“I’m serious. Something about a fire.”

“Are you shitting me? You need to get him on the phone and find out who the fuck told him!”

"It was a fire, then?" _Jesus. How could Will have possibly known that?_

“Suicide bomber. Killed thirty, maimed sixty and destroyed two buildings. She was in one of them.”

“Oh God. When did it happen?”

“Forty minutes ago. Now you listen to me, Charlie. You need to get him on the phone and find out who he talked to because I’ve got two other embeds down there who know too much about the uprising and they’re dead if I can’t get them out of there before this becomes front-page news.”

“Will’s a straight shooter, Fred. Even if he couldn’t tell me his source, he’d tell me he had one. Besides, if you had a leak, he wouldn’t have asked me to call you. I’ll go over there now, break the news and find out what he knows. I’ll call you back. Thanks.”

“Tell him I’m sorry we couldn’t protect her. She was as good as they come.”

The lump in his throat makes it hard for Charlie to speak.

”She was,” he whispers.


	2. Chapter 2

The six people Will wakes up can’t give him the information he needs. In fact, they all tell him variations of the same thing: they won’t be able to tell him more until the other idiots they’re relying on get into the office.

And so, petrified, unable to stay still, he paces his apartment, wondering who else to call. He’d struck her parents off the list two minutes after getting off the phone with Charlie. No need to worry Lord and Lady McHale. Her sister? Ditto. What can he do?

And then it hits him. How stupid can he be? The emails. The emails might tell him her whereabouts, might give him some hint as to who to call next. He hasn’t looked at his junk email folder in months, but there’s a good chance they’re in there because the number of unread messages gets larger by the day. He opens his laptop, launches the email application and clicks Junk. He scans the list of annoying messages from AlterNet, Politico and the New York Times and skates by one from Baskin-Robbins with _It’s your birthday! Enjoy a free cone on us!_ in the Subject line. How the hell did he get added to that list?

Another one, from his sister: _Happy Birthday._ No wonder he hasn’t heard from her in weeks.

And suddenly, he sees it. A message dated two days ago from MacKenzie McHale.

Heart pounding, he opens it.

_Happy birthday, Billy. I wish we were celebrating it together..._

Something in his chest tightens: her very fingers had typed those very words two days ago when she was well and unharmed.

_...CNN is much the same as any other network, perhaps a little more barebones than most. We don’t have a separate audio guy; the cameraman has to do it all. I ran into a reporter named Scott Johnson the other day. When I told him where I came from, he said you two used to work together at ABC and that I should tell you hello. I’d rather do that in person, but I’m starting to think I may never get the chance. It’s been four months, Billy, and you haven’t answered a single one of these emails. Will you ever give me the chance to explain? I didn’t do what I did because I didn’t care. I did it because I believed what Brian told me, which was that I was just another notch in your bedpost._

Is that really why she’d done it? Because that asshole told her she was just one woman in a long line of many? What had she said when she’d made her confession? He can’t remember. All he remembers is the sentence she’d uttered that had precipitated his command to get the fuck out of his life: _I slept with him a few times when you and I were first dating._ That’s all it took, and three minutes later she was standing on the sidewalk, shivering, waiting for a car to take her to the apartment she maintained but rarely visited. She’d barely had time to get her purse and shoes. It had snowed that day and he remembers finding her down parka in his hall closet after she’d gone. He’d sent her out into sub-freezing weather without a coat. Why hadn’t he given her a chance to explain? Why had he been so immovable?

He knows why.

Because he’d learned at an early age that no matter what they say, once a liar, always a liar. Once a cheater, always a cheater.

He’d learned _that_ from his father.

But she wasn’t his father—she was simply insecure. She’d always been that way, ever since he’d known her: always self-deprecating, always putting herself down. Except when it came to the work. Professionally, she was fearless, but she was less certain about herself, about the gifts she could bring to the world. He’d always known that beneath the bravado she was prone to letting other people influence her self-image. How had he forgotten? How, at the one moment it had been imperative for him to remember, had he forgotten? _I’m so sorry, Mac. I’m so sorry. Please be okay._

_It was only later, after I’d gotten to know you, that I realized you could never be a womanizer—that being one would go completely against your character. I’m so sorry, Billy. I’m sorry I was so gullible._

He keeps reading and there it is: Pakistan. She’s in Pakistan.

_I just arrived in Islamabad with my producer. His name is Jim Harper and he’s a very good egg. Young, but inquisitive. Fiercely loyal. I hope you’ll meet him someday. We’re covering a Shiite protest tomorrow. Word on the ground is that …_

She speaks in the same coded language she used to use when they’d exchange emails on sensitive subjects. The rest of the email is in much the same vein, breezy and a little bit gossipy. It’s only when she signs off that her false cheer falters.

_I miss you so much, Will. I can’t stop thinking about you and I can’t stop dreaming about you. I dream about you every night and it’s the same one, over and over: I walk into the apartment, you pull me into your arms, and you tell me that you love me. I guess it’s pretty pedestrian as dreams go, but I love it because it gives me the chance to feel your arms around me again and you smell like sandalwood and home and I miss you so much I wake up crying sometimes. I want to come home, Billy. I want to come home to you. I love you so much. It hurts how much I love you. Sometimes I’m afraid it will never stop. Do you ever think of me? Do you ever miss me? Part of me hopes you do but a bigger part hopes you don’t: it’s absolute torture and I wouldn’t wish it on anybody. I love you. Always. —MacKenzie._

_Oh, Mac._ Why did it take some stupid fucking nightmare to make him come to his senses? He has no idea why the dream has had the effect of breaking his resolve never to see—or think of her—again, but there’s something so primal about this fear, something so awful and profound about it that if he were to see her now and she confessed to being an assassin he thinks he probably wouldn’t give a damn. She has to be alright. She has to be. Nothing else matters.

He starts composing the reply in his head before he even gets to the end of her email. He rewrites it once, then hits Send before he has a chance to change his mind. There's so much more he starts to say to her, so much more he _needs_ to say to her, but in the end, decides that brevity is key. The most important thing is finding out whether she's alive and well. The rest can wait.

_Mac,_

_I'm sorry I haven't responded to any of your emails. To tell you the truth, this is the first one I've read. I've been a fool, a complete and utter fool, and we need to talk, but first I need to make sure you're okay. Are you? If you are, please read the rest of this email later. Right now I just need you to hit Reply, type "I'm okay" and hit Send. You can read the rest at your leisure and we can set up a Skype call to go over the myriad ways I've been an ass._

_I had a terrible nightmare about you tonight. You were hurt and in pain and I don't think I've ever been more terrified in my life. I've spent the last forty-five minutes waking people up, trying to find out where you are but no one seems to know. So, please, please, wherever you are, raise a flag, send me a smoke signal, do something to let me know you're still out there, giving people hell._

_I love you, too. Always._

_Will_

Next, he picks up the phone to call his friend Mitch at ABC. Mitch can’t tell him anything, but at least he thinks he knows who can and promises to call back within the hour. Will is buoyed by the news: at least Mitch is in the same time zone as MacKenzie, the woman whose equal he has yet to find anywhere in all of his acquaintance.

He’s just resumed scanning his list of contacts when the elevator clangs. Only two people have ever had full entry privileges and now it’s down to one: Charlie. _What the fuck is he doing here?_ Will’s heart starts racing triple-time as he waits for Charlie to amble out of the car.

When Charlie steps into the living room, Will bolts to his feet and Charlie can only stare at his protégé: Will’s in his t-shirt and boxers and his hair is standing straight on end.

Will doesn’t bother to say hello to his guest. “Did you talk to—“

Charlie shakes his head meaningfully and the look on his face makes Will’s stomach lurch.

He ignores it.

“She was in Islamabad two days ago,” he says hurriedly. “My friend Mitch knows somebody at Reuters who’s on the ground. I’m waiting for him to call me back—”

Will pauses. Charlie's silence is deeply disturbing. _If you don't know anything, why are you here?_ “Did you hear something?”

Charlie swallows and takes a step toward Will. “You were right, Will,” he says gently. “There was a fire—”

Will’s eyes widen and his lips part. “Is she alright?” The words come out garbled, the product of being forced out over a tongue that suddenly seems three sizes too large for his mouth.

But Charlie seems to understand. “I’m so sorry, Will,” he says, tears springing to his eyes as his voice catches in his throat. “She was pure gold.”

_Are you saying—? No. That’s impossible._

That’s _impossible._

The howl that leaves Will’s lips is unlike anything Charlie has ever heard. Will staggers back, trips over the coffee table behind him and tumbles backwards onto the couch.

“Steady, Will. Steady.”

“No!” Will cries. “She can’t be— _no_. I’d know it if she was— _no!”_ he cries.

To never see her again, to never hold her, to never hear her laugh again? How is it possible that someone so vibrant, so full of life—so full of sweetness and good-humored vinegar—no longer walks the earth? The pain is so great he can barely take a breath.

“I’m sorry—” Charlie soothes.

“ _No!_ Not Mac. _No!_ ”

The bile is rising in his throat and suddenly it’s rushing out of his mouth, so he turns his head, retching, gagging as he reflexively leans his head over the side of the couch to deposit what’s left of last night’s late-night snack into the wastebasket.

He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and looks up at Charlie, pleading. “No. She can’t be—she’s alive—I can feel it—I’d know it if she wasn’t. Please, Charlie. Please. There must be some mistake.”

“There’s no mistake, Will,” Charlie says gently. He looks at Will steadily, his eyes moist and full of compassion. “Her ID was on the body. I’m so sorry.”

“No!” And then Will is sobbing so hard Charlie can hardly make out the words. “No. No. Not Mac. Please. I’m so sorry, Mac. I’m so sorry.”

Charlie sits down gently beside him on the couch and puts his arm around his shoulder. “I know, son,” he soothes. “I know.”

“It’s all my fault! I killed her, Charlie. I killed her! If I hadn’t kicked her out, she’d never have gone. Oh God, not Mac. Not Mac! No. _No!_ ”

“Shhhh, son, shhh,” Charlie says, rubbing his back. “It isn’t your fault. You couldn’t have known.”

“She thought I hated her! But I didn’t. I love her, Charlie. I _love_ her! Oh God, I love her. Please, no.”

“She knew that, Will. She thought you were angry and in pain, but she knew you loved her.”

“She didn’t. She didn’t! How can—”

“She _did_. She told me. Right before she left. She said you acted like a jackass when you threw her out but she knew it was only because she’d hurt you so badly. She said—and I quote— _I know Will loves me. All I can do is give him the time and space he needs and hope that he remembers._ ”

She’d been waiting for him to come to his senses but now it’s too late. “Four years, Charlie! We were together four years and I let one stupid thing break us up. And now she’s dead. _Dead!_ My beautiful, sweet, perfect MacKenzie is _dead_!”

“I know, son,” Charlie says, his heart breaking for his friend. “I know. Listen. I need to ask you something. Was it really a dream or did someone tell you about the fire? Fred’s convinced he’s got a leak.”

Will doesn’t answer—can’t answer. _Oh, MacKenzie. Please, please let there be a mistake. I’ll do anything. Anything._

“Focus, Will,” Charlie says forcefully. “I need you to focus. People’s lives are at stake. Did you talk to anyone?”

When Will looks up at Charlie his face is swollen and tear-streaked and the grief in his eyes is so primal Charlie wants to look away. “No,” he sobs. “It was a dream. She was crying out for me. Begging me to help her.”

He wipes his eyes angrily. “How can she be dead, Charlie?” he whispers. “How can she be dead?”

MacKenzie is gone but Will is here, and though Charlie knows she’d want him to take care of him, he can only shake his head: he’s completely unable to come up with anything that might ease Will’s torment. And so, he removes his hand from Will’s back and gets up from the couch. Will’s liquor cart had been in the corner of the living room the last time he’d been here but now it’s nowhere to be found, so he walks from room to room, searching for it. He finally spies it next to Will’s bed. He takes a glass, pours a huge draught of whiskey into it and carries it back into the living room.

“Drink this,” he says, handing it to Will.

Will looks up and shakes his head.

“Drink it,” Charlie orders him.

“I don’t want to.”

“Take it,” Charlie barks.

Will shakes his head again. He deserves no respite from this pain. He deserves to be drawn and quartered. He deserves to be flayed alive. He deserves to be _burned_ alive.

Just like she was.

_Oh God, was she burned alive? Please God, no._

Rage contorts Will’s features and he reaches out, takes the glass from Charlie’s hand and hurls it across the room as hard as he can. It lands in the kitchen, the impact shattering the oven’s glass door and Charlie flinches as shards of glass spray back into the living room from whence the glass came.

He stares down at Will, whose face is buried in his hands, and does the only thing he can do: he reaches down, puts his hand firmly on Will's shoulder and sits down beside him. Then he pulls him tightly against his body and rocks him as the sobbing begins anew.


	3. Chapter 3

Will feels like an amputee in the days before anesthesia, crazed with pain, astounded that the human body can feel so much and not die from it.

_How can she be gone? HOW?_

When he begins to speculate on precisely _how_ her life must have ended, the manner in which all bodily functions must have ceased, he wants to scream anew. _Please let the end have come quickly. Please don’t have suffered. Please. Please. Please just have faded away. My poor angel. My poor, sweet angel. Oh Mac, I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry._

He sobs and sobs and sobs some more until he feels as if he is going to choke on the pain. Charlie—a patient, silent wall of support—makes no further demands on him and for a fleeting moment Will wishes the presence of such a sustaining influence might somehow make a difference. But it doesn’t. It can’t. Nothing will ever make a difference again.

Because she’s _dead_.

_Oh God._

Still, the expression of even mind-bending grief is not infinitely sustainable, and so, eventually, eventually, Will begins to quiet. Charlie takes that opportunity to begin to gently disentangle himself.

“Will,” he says softly. “I need to call Fred. Stay put. I’ll be right back.”

Standing up, he turns to head towards the back of the apartment. He's just about made it into the hallway when he halts, arrested by the sound of a soft thud behind him. He turns to find Will slumped on the floor, surrounded by the couch cushions he's dragged down with him.

Charlie watches as Will curls himself up into a tight ball. _Jesus, I can't leave him alone like this. Who can I call? Maybe he can stay with Nancy and me for a few days._ But he can worry about that later. Right now, he has more pressing concerns—like letting Fred know he has nothing to fear since his leak was of the supernatural variety.

As Charlie's footsteps fade away, Will presses his cheek flat against the cool wooden floorboards.

He wishes they were made of broken glass.

She’d slept in the morning of the last day he would ever see her. She’d stayed up late for an early morning call with her sister and she hadn’t made it to bed until after two. Tears blind him as memories of that night begin to coalesce and swirl inside him: the way the bed had dipped when she'd climbed in next to him, the way she'd gingerly pulled back the blankets so as not to disturb him. He remembers how warm her arm had felt as she looped it around his chest to pull him tightly against her and the way her gentle fingers had caressed his skin. He remembers the perfect satiety and contentment he'd always felt in her arms and her delicious habit of pressing her face against his bare back so she could breathe him in. He remembers how that tiny, seemingly inconsequential habit never failed to delight him, for it reminded him of how lucky he was to land a woman who loved him unreservedly, who could never resist an opportunity to get as close to him as she could.

He’d always loved that about her, the easy way she shared—and demanded—affection.

Soon other memories of that night begin to work their knives into his skin: the way, still half-asleep, he'd turned to lay on his back. How she'd quickly repositioned herself to lay her head on his chest. The way he’d made a half-hearted attempt to inquire about her phone call with her sister and the way she’d let him off the hook, reminding him that it was late and that he should go back to sleep. How he'd planned to do exactly that but the temptation of dipping his head down to kiss the top of her head had proven too great to resist. He chokes back a fresh sob as he remembers the way her hair had smelled, fresh from her evening shower: clean, fragrant and sweet as cherry blossoms. The way she'd snuggled ever closer to him afterwards, her forearm slung companionably over his chest. The way she'd whispered, “I love you, Billy. Sweet dreams," and how he'd answered her in kind as he drifted off into the sweet, easy sleep he’d only ever known with her.

He balls his hands into fists and rejoices as one of his too-long fingernails slices into his flesh.

_So stupid. I was so stupid. How could I have been so FUCKING stupid? How could I have cared so much about something so FUCKING stupid? As if sleeping with your ex because you believed some shitty lie he told you was a crime. A crime worthy of the death penalty. Because that’s what I gave her. The death penalty. _

_My girl is dead. My sweet, brilliant, beautiful girl is dead._

_She’s dead. She’s dead. She’s DEAD!_

The words, the emotions, howl furiously around inside his head, getting louder and louder until they convulse in a sickening, terrifying cataclysm of pain and horror and grief and sound.

“Oh God,” he wails. “Oh God, Mac, please, please! It’s all my fault and I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry!” 

Charlie rushes back from the bedroom, having just pulled out his phone to call Fred.

“Will,” he says roughly, grabbing him by the shoulder. “Will! Get hold of yourself, man!”

Will immediately falls silent and Charlie’s heart seizes guiltily in his chest when Will looks up at him, agonizing grief etched in his features. “I’m sorry, Charlie, I’m sorry,” he whispers. He gulps, tries to swallow the sob that’s threatening to escape and suddenly he’s seven years old again, trying to keep quiet, trying to keep his father from hearing him cry over the beating he’d just received, knowing the penalty for that infraction would be another one.

Yet somehow, somehow, Charlie knows. Something. Maybe not everything, maybe not even anything close, but the expression on Will’s face, the shamed, terrified expression of a little boy, breaks Charlie’s heart.

Again.

He looks at Will helplessly with eyes full of compassion. “Son, I _know_ …” he stops, tries to find something, anything, to say that will ease Will’s burden. Tries to speak over the enormous lump that’s formed in his own throat. “I _know_ this is the worst day of your life. But the last thing MacKenzie would have wanted is for you to blame yourself. She wouldn’t, and she sure as hell wouldn’t want you to, either. What do you think she’d say if she were here right now, huh? She’d tell you to pull yourself together and get up off the damned mat.” And suddenly, Charlie can feel hot tears spilling over his own eyelashes as he thinks of the girl who’d loved the man in front of him so fiercely. “She _loved_ you, Will. With all her heart. And she would _not_ have wanted you to carry this burden.”

Will knows that. He _knows_ that. But it doesn’t matter what MacKenzie would want, because she’s not here.

_And it's all_

_his_

_fault._

Still, he has the presence of mind to know that his own catastrophic failure as a human being has nothing to do with Charlie and that Charlie’s torn between wanting to be there for him and doing the things that need to be done. And, so, because he doesn’t want to be a burden, he looks up at Charlie and nods. “I’m sorry."

“Don’t be,” Charlie says, squeezing Will’s shoulder. “But I need to call Fred, okay? I’ll be right back.” He starts to head off, pauses, and then slowly turns back around. “Will, I know it doesn’t feel like it right now, but you _will_ get through this. And you’re not alone. Nancy and I, everyone at work, we all love you. And you can lean on us until you come out the other side. Okay?”

Will nods again, unable to speak.

When Charlie makes it to Will’s bedroom, he pulls his phone out of his pocket but before he can hit redial, Fred's name is on the call display.

Charlie brings the phone to his ear. "It wasn't a leak—“

Fred dispenses with the niceties. “Forget it. Are you with her ex?”

“Yeah.”

“Did you already tell him?”

“Yeah.”

“Fuck."

A pause. And then Fred's voice, hoarse and full of regret: "Charlie, it wasn’t her.”


	4. Chapter 4

Will's mind flits from one torturous thought to another, each miserable imagining a pathway to a more painful one—different tendrils with the same root. Lord and Lady McHale. _Do they know yet?_ Fresh nausea roils his stomach as he imagines the moment they learned their worst fears had come true. Her sister Harry—her true twin in humor and temperament—unlike Simon, her fraternal one. _Oh God, Simon._ If Will had experienced her end, what must it have been like for him? _Then again_ , he thinks idly, _maybe that kind of connection only exists between identical twins_.

He pulls at the threads on the couch cushion, blindly unraveling them as his mind replays a thousand memories from their life together. Sparring. Bickering. Nights of love and laughter. So much laughter, even when they fought. The way she would say something that instantly put whatever they were arguing about into perspective. _“You might want to take it down a notch, Billy."_

The way he’d immediately back off because he knew his tactics were threatening something far more precious than whatever else was at stake. And with those words, his face would relax and all the tension would leave his body. _“Okay,”_ he’d say. _“We’ll just agree to disagree. How’s that?” “Wise, I think.”_ Then she’d reach out, extend her hand to him as a truce and he’d use it to pull her into his arms. " _I love you,”_ she’d say, her arms wrapped tightly around his back, her cheek pressed against his chest. He’d return the sentiment—often punctuating it with a kiss—and then they’d go back to whatever they’d been doing before the argument had started.

_Did she say anything like that before I kicked her out? Had there been any time?_

No.

 _Dammit, WHY didn’t I give her a chance to explain?_

_Would it have made any difference?_ his mind counters.

 _Yes! Yes!_ his better angel pleads.

 _No,_ his conscience sneers. _Because you're an unforgiving, implacable, arrogant ass. And you killed her._

Hot tears spill down his cheeks and he clutches the cushion more tightly.

Suddenly, an ear-splitting sound explodes from his bedroom and his fingers still, the thin threads digging into his flesh and cutting off his circulation.

“ _What?_ ” he hears Charlie yell. “Where the hell _is_ she, Fred? Is she alright?”

Will’s eyes widen. Lips part. Lungs expand to accommodate a sharp intake of breath.

And then ... slowly, slowly ... a bud of desperate hope blossoms in his chest.

_Did you just say—does that mean she’s—_

He leaps to his feet, intent on finding out but he trips over the goddamned coffee table and goes sprawling, landing hard on his knees. Righting himself, he hauls his ass into the bedroom and finds Charlie swearing into his phone.

“Fuck! How bad is it?”

“Bad. She's got a secondary—” Fred starts to say but Charlie interrupts him, knowing he has to deal with the man who just stumbled into the room. “Hold on,” Charlie barks into the phone. He just hopes he won’t have to break Will’s heart a second time in the space of twenty minutes. Charlie reaches out a hand to steady Will, whose wild-eyed expression is filled with equal parts terror and hope.

“Is she—” Will breathes.

“Yes,” Charlie says calmly. “She is." Will's knees buckle and Charlie grabs him by the forearm. "But she's hurt, son.” 

“How bad?” Will asks.

“She’s got a twelve-inch gash in her abdomen,” Fred responds. Unfortunately, Charlie's the only one who can hear him.

“How _bad_?” Will repeats loudly. And then he's off, rapid-fire, spraying Charlie with questions: “Where is she? Who’s taking care of her? What does she need?” Charlie shakes his head and raises his hand, trying to get Will to shut the hell up so he can actually hear what Fred is saying to him, but Will refuses to get the message. 

“She’s gonna lose at least a foot of intestine. _If_ she survives—” Fred says. At least Charlie thinks that's what he says. He wouldn't actually know since Will's incessant questions are drowning him out. Charlie wishes he could put Fred on speakerphone. Unfortunately, he has only the faintest notion of how to operate his phone. _Where is my grandson when I need him??_ He motions for Will to sit down on the bed but Will refuses to do as instructed. “ _Charlie!_ ” Will cries. “Talk to me! What does she—"

Charlie puts his hand over the mouthpiece again and tries to speak patiently. “I’m _trying_ to find out, Will. Can you please shut the hell up!?”

“Let me talk to him,” Will replies, reaching for Charlie’s phone.

“ _No!_ You are in no shape to—”

“Let me _talk_ to him, Goddammit!” Will exclaims.

Charlie shakes his head in resignation, then speaks into the phone. “Fred, I’m handing you off to Will McAvoy." He extends the phone to Will but jerks it back before he can grab it. "And go easy on him! I just had to pull a gun out of his mouth because of your shitty intel.” And then Will is wrenching the phone out of Charlie's hand and striding to the far corner of the room. “And I meant that figuratively, not literally!” Charlie yells.

“She’s alive?” Will says into the phone, his breath coming in short, sharp gasps.

“Yes. We got it wrong. I’m sorry. Her ID was on—”

“I don’t give a fuck. How bad is it?” 

“Smoke inhalation. And something called a …” Will hears the rustling of papers. “… secondary blast injury to the abdomen.”

“English, please?" Will says. And then, “Never mind. What’s being done for her?”

“We’re trying to get her MEDEVACed out to Landstuhl.”

“ _Landstuhl?_ ” Will exclaims. “That’s fourteen hours away! If it’s bad, she’ll never make it!”

“The nearest U.S. military hospital was shot to hell two months ago. Would you rather have her operated on in a tent?”

“Jesus Christ. What kind of medical personnel do you have?”

“Military. They’re good but a little birdie just told me she’ll have a better chance with a different in-flight doctor. We have someone who was knighted by the Queen on standby but Corporate’s balking at the extra expense.”

“ _Fuck_ Corporate!” Will explodes. “I want the best damned doctor there is! _I’ll_ pay for it—I don't care what it costs! Bribe him if you have to but get him there!" Charlie looks at him, eyebrows raised and makes a hand signal telling Will to _rein it in_. "Look, just do whatever it takes to save her. _Whatever_ it fucking takes, okay? You can send the bills to me. No questions asked.” His tone is desperate, pleading. " _Please_."

Fred is momentarily silent. “Copy.”

Will takes a deep breath. “Do they have all her medical records? You need to tell them she’s allergic to penicillin. And that she had her spleen out when she was seventeen.”

“We just sent them over.”

“Okay. Look, we're wasting time. I need you to put me on the phone with whoever is taking care of her. I want to make sure they know they have carte blanche.”

“I’ll tell them.”

“No," Will says in frustration. " _I_ will! Goddammit, Fred, you don’t _know_ —” he falters. "Please. Please put me through to them. I need to find out how she is.” He stops. “I’m begging you. Please.”

“I thought you were her ex.”

“What does that have to do with anything!?”

“Nothing. I’ll try to put you through.” Will waits for a few agonizing minutes until Fred is back on the line.

“I just spoke with them. They don’t want to talk to you because they don’t have time to deal with a freaked-out relative. They received her medical records and I told them to get the other doctor. I also told them that money is no object and they should do whatever it takes to save her. _Whatever_ it takes, okay? They’ll give me an update when they’re in the air.”

Will exhales loudly. “Thank you. _Thank_ you. Now, what do I need to do to get on the admittance list at Landstuhl?”

Before Will has a chance to hear Fred’s response—or to argue—Charlie has migrated to his side of the room and is grabbing the phone out of his hand.

“Hey!” Will says. Charlie holds up his hand.

“Hey Fred, it’s Charlie. Me, too. What will it take to get both of us on the admittance list?” 

“You’re going? Why? She doesn’t work for you anymore, Charlie. We’ve got it covered.”

“Have you been able to reach her parents?”

“No.”

“Then I'm going. That girl’s like my daughter and I made a promise to her father that I would look out for her.”

Charlie turns to Will. “Remind me. The McHales’ first names. What are they? And give me the names of her brothers and sisters, too, in case they show up.”

“Harold. Penny. Simon, Harriet and Liv—Olivia. Charlie, give me the fucking phone—"

“Pipe down,” Charlie says, then repeats the names to Fred.

“We’ve got a private jet leaving for Ramstein in two hours,” Fred tells Charlie. “You two are welcome to join us.”

“We’ll be there,” Charlie tells him and hangs up. “You’d better start packing, Will, he says. “I need to arrange coverage for the show for the next week. I’ll be back to pick you up in an hour.”

“Charlie—” Will says. “Thank you—”

Charlie shakes his head. “No time, Will. Let’s go get our girl.”

\-------------

When they arrive at the hangar, Charlie points Fred out to Will. Fred is deep in conversation with another man and Will rushes over to them, not bothering to wait for a lull in the conversation to interrupt. “What have you heard?”

“Will McAvoy,” Fred says, extending his hand. Will shakes it reflexively. “It’s a pleasure to meet you. And nothing since an hour ago. They got the good doctor, her vitals are steady and they took off fifty minutes ago. We’re ready to board. Let’s go.”

Will and Charlie follow Fred onto the well-appointed plane and settle themselves in the plush leather seats. As soon as the Fasten Seatbelt light goes off Will starts peppering Fred with questions. “Can you call the MEDEVAC crew for an update? What time do they think they’ll be there? Are we on the admittance list at Landstuhl? Are—”

Fred can tell this is going to be a long flight. Still, he does as he’s asked and manages to reach the MEDEVAC crew. He puts them on speakerphone so he doesn’t have to endure another round of Will McAvoy’s repeated interruptions.

“Fred Davis here,” he says into the phone. “I’m with Will McAvoy. Your patient's ex-boyfriend. He’d like an update on her condition.”

“I’m sorry. I can’t provide that information to anyone but her parents,” the crew member tells them over speakerphone. “They have medical power of attorney.”

“Have you spoken to them?” Fred asks.

“No. I don’t think anyone’s been able to reach them.”

Will looks to Fred for confirmation. Fred nods and then tries another tack.

“You can tell Will anything you’d say to them. He’s her fiancé.”

“You just said he was her ex.”

“We’re getting back together,” Will qualifies. “And then we’re getting engaged.”

“Does she know that? Look, I’m sorry, but unless I hear you’re her next of kin from her own lips, I can’t do it.”

“She’s _unconscious_! How the hell do you expect to hear it from her own lips?” Will exclaims.

“Exactly,” the guy says.

“For fuck’s sake,” Will mutters, reaching into his pocket to pull out his cell phone. Aloud, he says: “She’d want me to know. I can prove it.” He opens the message she sent two days ago. He zeroes in on the last paragraph and hands the phone to Fred. “Read this to him. It’s from her own lips.”

Fred takes the phone. “I’m going to read you an email she sent to the ex-boyfriend. Fiancé. Whatever.” He scrolls up to the top of the message. “It’s dated two days ago. The sender’s address is MMcHale@cnn.intl.com. It’s legit—mine’s from the same domain.”

He turns his attention back to the phone and scrolls back down to the part of the message Will showed him. “’We're a ‘barebones operation,’ huh?” he snorts.

“Don’t hold it against her,” Will says.

Fred reads a few lines and smirks. “She shouldn’t be using company email to send a love letter.”

“Just read it to him, will you?” Will says impatiently.

Fred does. “Okay, here we go. From her own lips. _’I miss you so much, Will. I can’t stop thinking about you and I can’t stop dreaming about you. I dream about you every night—'”_

“Satisfied?” Fred says hopefully, anxious to stop reading the ridiculous, far-too-personal missive from his employee. He looks expectantly at the phone, waiting for the reply.

“No,” the disembodied voice says. “I haven’t heard anything that would make me disclose sensitive information about a patient. We were in a similar situation a year ago and the guy turned out to be a stalker.”

“Fine,” Fred sighs. He reads the first part of the next sentence to himself and groans. “Oh God,” he mutters.

“Did you say something?” the guy on the phone asks.

“No. Just had to brace myself for a second. Here’s the next part. _’… and it’s the same one, over and over. I walk into the apartment, you pull me into your arms, and you tell me that you love me. I guess it’s pretty pedestrian as dreams go, but I love it because it gives me the chance to feel your arms around me again …’”_

“How much more of this do I have to read?” Fred asks Will.

“Just ‘til she signs off. A few more sentences.” Will says.

“Christ.”

_“… and you smell like sandalwood and home and I miss you so much I wake up crying sometimes. I want to come home, Billy. I want to come home to you. I love you so much. It hurts how much I love you. Sometimes I’m afraid it will never stop. Do you ever think of me? Do you ever miss me? Part of me hopes you do but a bigger part hopes you don’t: it’s absolute torture and I wouldn’t wish it on anybody. I love you. Always. —MacKenzie.”_

There's silence as the crew member weighs his options. “Fine,” he sighs, relenting. “I’ll tell you. But this better not bite me in the derriere. We got her blood pressure stabilized, her blast wound sutured and her oxygen levels somewhere approximating normal. She’s holding steady, so I’m cautiously optimistic. Barring any complications, there’s a good chance she’ll pull through. We just have to make sure she makes it to Landstuhl in good shape. I’ll call you every hour with an update.”

Will spends the next nine hours reading every one of MacKenzie's emails. Each one makes him feel like a bigger heel than the last. Why had be been so willing to throw what they had away? Why didn't he even _try_ to salvage it? He can't make sense of it but decides it doesn't matter. The only thing that matters is making sure she comes out of this thing alive. 

He glances at the weary faces of his fellow passengers. Each one of them, in their own way, cares what happens to her. But not like he does. 

And he's going to do whatever it takes to prove it to her.


	5. Chapter 5

_One week later_

Fingers, nestled in her palm, warm against her skin. Words, devoid of meaning, spoken in a gentle tone. A dull ache in her abdomen, as if someone has run her through with a pool cue. A bone-deep lethargy that makes everything feel so _heavy._ A body that refuses to obey even the simplest command.

She can't quite work out what she's doing here. She knows she's in limbo but she has no sense of where she's been or where she's supposed to end up. Time lurches and splutters along, but there's nothing with which to measure it except bright lights that eventually give way to pitch-black darkness. She's surrounded by sounds that make no sense to her; one minute she imagines she can hear something being rolled down a hallway, the next someone coughing nearby. She exists in a kind of stasis, never quite awake and never quite asleep, either.

It's lonely in this place.

Sometimes, though, she imagines she can feel a warm hand in hers and someone breathing softly beside her. She doesn't know who that might be or whether they actually exist but she knows she'll be stuck in this place until someone finds their way back to her or she to them. She just doesn't know how. Again and again, she tries to fight her way to the surface but she can never quite make it. Sometimes, she's afraid she never will.

\---

And then something shifts. When she comes to this time, the sounds are more distinct and she's able to pick out a few words. “She’ll try again. Just give her some time,” someone says. _Are they talking about me?_ Footsteps travel farther away from her, and then she feels her hand being held aloft as deft fingers draw gentle circles in her palm. She allows herself to be soothed, but she's frightened by the fact that still can't open her eyes. _What’s happened to me?_

“Take your time, sweetheart,” a sweet, honeyed and— _achingly familiar?_ voice says. 

_Could it be—?_ _No._ _Of course not._ _Who, then?_

“Take as long as you need," the voice tells her. "Everything’s okay. You’re okay.”

She ignores the voice in her head. The fog of the last few days begins to recede and she realizes that at long last, she's _somewhere_. Somewhere she can eventually leave. She has no idea why this night has been so very, very long, but no matter. She must focus on the task at hand: she needs a shower and a coffee and a half-dozen Advil but she won't get any of those things until she makes it out of this bed. She pauses. _That is where I am, isn't it?_ She feels around with one hand and is reassured by the feeling of fabric that greets her. Sheets. _Bingo._ She takes a deep breath, marshalls all of her courage and all of her strength and wills herself to open her eyes. It takes a dozen torturous, purposeful blinks before she finally makes it, but eventually, eventually, she does. Unfortunately, the squiggly lines blurring her vision make it a short-lived victory, so she forces herself through a few more torturous blinks and slowly everything comes into focus. _Finally!_

She's momentarily cheered, but the vision before her makes her want to groan aloud: _Will_ is hovering above her, his blue eyes bathing her in warmth. She's just so damned _tired_ of seeing him everywhere she goes and she wonders how much longer she'll be forced to endure her own mind games. Then again, perhaps this is a good sign? At least it's a normal hallucination—far better than the hazy, nonsensical ones that have plagued her for the last few days. Still, welcome hallucination or no, she needs to be rid of him. She closes her eyes again, determined to vanquish her unwanted visitor but when she finally forces them open she is annoyed beyond measure to find that he's still there. She shakes her head in annoyance and scrunches her eyelids together again.

"Is something bothering your eyes?" the voice says gently and her eyelids fly open. Dream Will never would have said that. In fact, Dream Will never says much of anything beyond the mundane yet wonderful _I love you_ , _I miss you_ , and _I want you to come home_. Dream Will is rather taciturn, really. To tell the truth, she can't recall a single time Dream Will has ever reacted appropriately to anything going on in the real world.

 _Could you be—is it possible that you're really here?_ She blinks rapidly, trying to discover whether her senses are once again deceiving her but when he smooths her hair back from her forehead, she is absolutely astounded to discover that _Will McAvoy_ is actually standing right next to her. He's _not_ some hazy, gauzy illusion. He's a glorious, beautiful, three-dimensional, towering man who _speaks._ _Oh my God._

Her heart starts hammering in her chest as her eyes lock onto his. His expression is tender, concerned, a little frightened, and about a hundred other things she doesn’t understand. “Hey, honey," he whispers, smiling, and the sound of his voice—now that she knows it comes from a living, breathing, thinking human—is an internal caress. "Welcome back. How are you feeling?”

 _Bewildered_ , she tries to say but the words get caught in her throat. _Why are you here?_

He brings her hand up to kiss her palm and the electricity that shoots through her confirms that this is _not_ a dream. His attention seems riveted by her lips and the direction of his stare suddenly makes her keenly aware of how dry they are. As if on cue, he produces a tiny tub of her favorite lip balm and offers it to her with outstretched fingers. It’s something she ran out of weeks ago, something she’d asked Harry to send her. Presumably, it arrived in the mail. _How did you get my mail?_ Increasingly perplexed, she glances down and notices the bed rails for the first time. _Why am in the hospital?_

She freezes as suddenly as it all comes back to her in terrifying TechniColor: sitting at the wooden table, waiting for her interpreter Ameena to show up. Hoping Ameena hadn’t lost the ID she’d given her to ease her entrée into the base exchange—she’d have a hard time explaining _that_ to her superiors. Waiting for her producer Jim to show up. Waiting for her interview subject to show up. Trying not to think of Will, who—despite her best efforts—was never far from her thoughts. And then, the loudest sound she’d ever heard. A supersonic boom. Being blown off the bench. Instinctively rolling across the wooden floorboards. Her arm caught awkwardly beneath her. A piece of metal sailing through the air in slow motion, making its sickening descent toward her body. Trying—and failing—to get out of the way. Excruciating pain in her abdomen. Crying out for Will. And then … mercifully … a deep, sweet slide into oblivion.

She grips Will’s fingers so hard he drops the tub of lip balm onto the coverlet. She knows she’s cutting off his circulation but he doesn’t attempt to get her to loosen her grip. “Everything’s fine, honey,” he says gently. “You’re okay.”

“ _Jim!”_

“He’s fine,” Will says, continuing to gaze at her tenderly and using the fingers on his other hand to stroke the hair back from her forehead. _Thank God_ , she thinks. She relaxes a bit as her breath begins to even out and her heart starts regaining its rhythm. “They gave him some time off so he’s on his way back to the States,” Will finishes. “Your parents are here, though." he tells her. "They're at the hotel but they'll be back in a couple of hours.”

“My parents?”

He nods. “You were badly hurt.”

 _Is that why you’re here?_ But she doesn’t say it. She doesn’t want to know _why_ he’s here. Not yet. And then a new wave of terror floods her and she grips his hand tightly.

“Ameena! My interpreter!”

Will takes a deep breath and shakes his head. This one’s harder. A lot harder. “I’m sorry, honey,” he says with regret. “She didn’t make it.”

_What?_

_No!_

_No!_

_Not Ameena!_

MacKenzie’s eyes fill with tears at the loss of the woman who’s been so kind to her for the last four months. “Ashira!” she cries. “Her daughter! She just had a baby!”

“I know,” Will says soothingly. “CNN’s going to give her survivor benefits. We’ve gotten to know each other a little bit over the last few days and I’m going to look into sponsoring her and her husband to come to the U.S.”

_What? Has the world gone mad?_

“ _Why?_ ”

Will shrugs. “She and her mom loved you. Ashira said you and Jim used to come over for dinner sometimes. She said you told her you felt a little bit like a part of their family—and that it was a nice way to feel so far from home. I’m glad they were there for you.”

She nods, unable to speak. “ _Oh, Ameena_ ,” she cries. And then, “Raul—our cameraman!”

“He’s okay, and so is the guy you were supposed to meet.”

She nods slowly. “I should be grateful for those things, then.” She looks down at their clenched hands and tries to process what he’s telling her. He’s silent, too, seemingly content to let her control the flow of conversation. When she thinks she’s fortified herself enough to hear the answer, she raises her eyes to his and asks the next question. “What happened?”

He looks at her steadily. “Suicide bomber.”

“Oh my God,” she gasps, raising the hand not being held by Will to her mouth. “How many people were hurt?”

“Forty dead, fifty injured. Two buildings in the base exchange were destroyed. You were in one of them.”

A sharp intake of breath as she tries to process _that_ piece of information.

“You were lucky. Really lucky.” He doesn’t even want to remember how lucky she was. But she seems to want to know, so he tells her, anyway. “There were military doctors in the square and one of them pulled you out.” She looks at him questioningly and sees his eyes have gone moist. “But it was bad, Mac. We almost lost you.” He pauses to let that sink in. “We thought we had for a while. It was only when Jim went to identify the body that they realized Ameena had your ID.”

“Oh _,”_ she breathes. _Poor Jim._ She’s silent as she imagines her squeamish producer being forced to examine a dead body. “My parents thought I was dead?” she whispers hoarsely.

Will shakes his head. “No. The network had figured it out by the time your dad called back.”

She’s grateful for small mercies. “That’s good. That would have—” _Destroyed them_ , she thinks.

“Yeah.” He pauses.

“Who, then? Who thought I was dead?”

He seems reluctant to answer. “CNN.” He looks at her steadily with an expression she can’t quite name. “Me.”

“You?” _Why would you—_ “How—”

His expression shifts and he looks at her hesitantly as he pulls his chair closer to the bed and grasps her hand. “I saw it, Mac,” he says earnestly. “I saw it all.”

“How?”

“The bomb went off at 1:57 in the afternoon your time. I was asleep: it was just before 3:00 AM in New York. And at that moment I started having a terrible, terrible nightmare about you. I saw it happen. Through your eyes.”

“What are you talking about?” She doesn’t know which one of them has lost their marbles but it’s definitely one of them.

“I saw water barrels flying through the air. Lumber raining down from the sky. A wall of fire coming toward me. I couldn’t breathe.”

The sickening feeling in her lungs as she struggled to get a breath. _You felt it, too? How is that possible?_

He stares at her as if he’s afraid she won’t believe him. “You … you fell on your arm, didn’t you? When the explosion knocked you off the bench?”

She gasps, unable to fathom how he could know such a thing. “How could you possibly know—"

“I felt it. My arm got twisted behind my back. Your arm, I mean. In the dream I was you. Your arm was twisted so you couldn’t get out of the way when the piece of metal fell, right? It hit you right beneath the ribs and you cried out for me. I heard it.”

“How is that possible? Are you saying we’re psychically linked?”

“Yeah. I … think so. Something like that. I called Charlie and woke him up, and then I woke up half-a-dozen other people trying to find out if you were okay. Charlie called Fred and Fred told him you were …” he swallows. “Dead.” His eyes fill with tears. “Then Charlie came over and broke the news.”

“So, we’re psychically connected, huh?” she says, trying without success to keep the bitterness out of her voice. “I’ve cried out for you hundreds of times in the last four months, Will. And here I thought it was just the emails and phone messages you were ignoring.”

He closes his eyes and when he opens them again his expression is full of regret. “That was the first time I felt it, Mac. That kind of connection. I mean, I've always felt connected to you, but not—I don't think I've ever felt your— _feelings_ like that. So ... viscerally. As if they were my own. I’m sorry. I don't know what I'm saying. But you should probably know that until that night I hadn’t read any of your emails or listened to any of your messages.” He grips her hand more tightly, then exhales slowly. “I couldn’t—it hurt too much. I'm sorry.” She’s silent, so he rushes on. “We didn’t know there’d been a mistake until Charlie had been there almost half an hour.” He looks so crushed, so pained under the weight of his burden that her anger dissipates and her heart clenches in her chest. “It was the most horrific twenty-seven minutes of my life, Mac,” he whispers. “And I can’t begin to tell you how grateful I am that you’re going to be alright.”

She’s too emotionally fragile to investigate the implicit meaning in such a sentiment so she focuses on the explicit.

She takes a deep, steadying breath. “So, I am? Going to be alright?”

“Yeah. You lost one-and-a-half feet of intestine, but the surgeons were able to repair the other damage. You shouldn’t have any trouble going forward.”

She nods, once again feeling as if she’s awakened in a parallel universe. “That’s a … relief. I guess. How long have I been here?”

“Six days. Seven since the bomb went off. It took ‘em a while to get you out of the country.”

She stares at him. “We’re not in Pakistan anymore?”

Will shakes his head. “Germany. We’re at Landstuhl.”

“Oh.” If she wasn’t so emotionally drained, she’d be compelled to ask for details. “How long have my parents been here?”

“Five. They haven’t left your side. Figuratively, I mean. Though you _would_ choose the one moment they did to wake up.” He smiles at her then, a sweet, buoying smile that fills her with warmth. “They’re going to think I orchestrated this whole thing.” He pauses. “So I could have you all to myself.”

He looks at her meaningfully. She only wishes she had _some_ idea as to what that meaning might be.

“Honey, I’m going to call the nurse now. She’ll want to check on you.”

He presses the call button while she tries to puzzle out his liberal use of the words _honey_ and _sweetheart_.

They’re soon joined by a warm, friendly nurse who looks to be well-acquainted with Will.

She asks MacKenzie a standard battery of questions and both she and Will look terribly relieved when she is able to answer them satisfactorily. “Well, McAvoy,” the nurse says drily. “Looks like your prayers have been answered. You can live again.”

Will gives MacKenzie a quick, bashful glance and looks down.

The nurse gestures toward Will. “This one wouldn’t leave your side. In fact, he flat-out refused. Made such a stink we had to call security the first night.”

Will shakes his head as if to disagree but says nothing. They didn't have to call security, for Christ's sake; it's not as if he was threatening to blow the place up: he simply wanted to be able to watch over her. Was that too much to ask? She needed an advocate. Her parents hadn't arrived yet; so, who the hell else was going to do it? Fred? No thank you. The man gives Will the creeps. Okay, maybe Will did play the celebrity card but Charlie had started it. He's the one who'd mentioned Will's connections to military charities. And that ACN might be able to bring attention to some of the funding issues currently plaguing the hospital. Will had simply gone along with it. Was that a crime?

Evelyn obviously has him in her sights and he knows no good can come from that (he's learned that much over the last seven days). “See that bed over there?” she says to MacKenzie, gesturing to a folded rollaway bed in the corner that’s topped with a threadbare blanket and pillow. A thin and uncomfortable-looking mattress pokes out from between the folded frame. “He’d have slept on the floor if we hadn’t set it up. Strictly against regulations, I might add. Administration wasn’t happy about it, but you know celebrities.” She turns and winks at Will. “They tend to get their way.”

Will rolls his eyes and the nurse quirks a fond smile at him. “He wasn’t all bad, though. You so much as twitched in your sleep and he was right there next to you, holding your hand.”

“Okay, Evelyn,” Will says, clearing his throat. “I think you’ve embarrassed me enough.”

Evelyn looks at him in surprise, then with dawning comprehension, and then with real remorse. She claps her hand over her mouth. “Oh, you haven’t had a chance to talk yet, have you?”

“She’s only been awake twelve minutes.”

Evelyn looks apologetically at MacKenzie. “Forgive me. I get carried away.”

“It’s alright,” MacKenzie replies reflexively. Inwardly, she’s reeling. _He’s been with me this whole time? What could he mean by it? And what on Earth did he see?_ Of course, she’d never hidden anything from him in the life they’d shared (except for that _one_ thing, of course), but that access had been given freely. This feels different somehow. More like an invasion of privacy. She shifts uncomfortably in the bed, suddenly acutely self-conscious. Then she tries to put it out of her mind. _Focus on getting your bearings, Kenz_ , she tells herself. _The rest can wait._

The nurse finishes taking MacKenzie’s blood pressure and MacKenzie asks if she might be able to brush her teeth. She's thrilled when Evelyn consents: she feels absolutely disgusting; every part of her is screaming out to be cleansed. The fact that Will is here to witness it makes it that much more appalling.

Evelyn lowers the bedrails and she and Will respond as if by prior agreement: Will stands to MacKenzie's left and Evelyn to her right and together, they carefully help MacKenzie put her feet on the floor. As soon as she stands up, however, a wave of dizziness threatens to topple her. She begins to sway on her feet and it takes but a second for Will to wrap his arms around her. He tucks her safely into his side and it takes everything she has not to burst into tears: it’s absolutely _marvellous_ to feel his arms around her and he smells sweet and clean and solid and warm and when it occurs to her that he might not be here for the reason she wants him to be, she can barely suppress the urge to cry out.

“You okay?” Will asks softly.

“Yes," she reassures him. _Much better with your arms around me._ "It's better now. I think I can manage.”

He nods and she allows them to lead her to the bathroom. The feeling of his arms around her—in real life now, not in a dream—is almost beyond her endurance. It’s certainly beyond her comprehension. She leans heavily on him, even going so far as to allow him _into_ the bathroom so he can prop her up at the sink. She stands there like a child, the nurse at her elbow and Will at her back, grasping her toothbrush with a hand that no longer seems to know how to aim with precision. She closes her eyes, takes a deep breath and trains every ounce of focus she has on maneuvering the brush. Satisfied, she removes it from her mouth and accepts Will’s paper cup of water. She rinses her teeth and because her face feels odd—hard and pinched and decidedly _off_ somehow—she decides to risk a glance in the mirror. She gasps in surprise when she sees what the explosion did to her face: her cheeks are swollen, the skin around her eyes is a mottled purple and her nose is twice it’s normal size. Her hair is a greasy, matted mess. _Will has been staring at THIS for the past several days?_ _Oh God._

“You’re looking a lot better,” the nurse tells her. MacKenzie looks at her, disbelieving, so Will chimes in. “You are, Kenz. You’re looking better every day. You’ll be back to normal in no time.”

“A couple of weeks, tops,” the nurse says.

MacKenzie can only shake her head. “Do you think I might be able to have a shower?” she asks the nurse.

“We can try after dinner. How’s that?” she answers.

“I don’t mean to be a bother … truly … and you’ve been very kind, but … is there any chance I could have one now?” She looks helplessly at Will. “I just feel really—” _Grungy._ She hopes she won’t be required to complete that sentence.

“She’ll feel better if she has one,” Will tells the nurse. “More like herself. She usually takes one twice a day—one in the morning and one at night—when we’re at home, anyway,” he qualifies. He imagines she’s unlikely to have indulged in that luxury as an embed, but seven days without one must be driving her crazy.

 _When we’re at home?_ ’ MacKenzie repeats to herself, puzzled.

“Alright,” Evelyn relents but MacKenzie suspects it’s more because she can’t say “no” to Will. Either way, she'll take it. “We’ll let you have one as soon as the doctor has a look at you.”

“Thank you. I appreciate it.”

The doctor comes in soon after and pronounces MacKenzie well enough to take a shower so Evelyn wraps her torso with plastic, leads her into the bathroom and helps her into the stall. As the warm water courses down her body, MacKenzie feels some of the tension leave her body.

When she emerges from the bath her hair is wet and she’s obviously exhausted and Will can't help staring at her. He feels so much for her, and the bruises on her face are a constant reminder of just how close he came to losing her. He wants things settled so badly he feels like he's vibrating out of his skin, but he knows he has to be patient. He's come lifetimes in the last seven days but he has no idea where she's at. Of course, he can't say any of that. All he can do is stick to the here and now. “Feeling better?” he asks her. She nods tiredly as Evelyn settles her back into bed.

Evelyn leaves them and MacKenzie and Will are left staring at one another, each of them unsure of how to begin to address the elephant in the room. MacKenzie breaks the silence. “Did the change to my medical power of attorney not go through? I took your name off after we broke up. My parents should have it now.”

“They do. It went through.”

She exhales softly. Now she's even more confused. She decides it will be far better to rip the bandage off now than to be misled by her own feverish desires. “Then why are you here, Will? If it’s out of some misbegotten … well, I can’t even begin to imagine what would bring you here. But I can tell you it’s not necessary. My parents will look after me. You can …" She swallows. "Go. You said it’s been six—seven—days. I’m sure you have to get back to work.”

She steels herself against his response, certain he’s going to walk out the door and the look on his face, surprised and a little crestfallen, tells her nothing. Absolutely nothing. But before he has a chance to give voice to whatever thoughts are lurking beneath that placid exterior the door opens, and her parents walk in.

They’re overjoyed to see her conscious but when they see how tired she is it takes but a few minutes for them to propose cutting their visit short. “We’ll be back tonight, Lovey," he mother says. "You’re being discharged the day after tomorrow and the doctors want you to stay nearby for three days, so we’ve booked you the adjoining room at our hotel. I’ll stay with you while Dad’s in ours.”

MacKenzie nods tiredly while Will’s jaw drops. _What the hell!? They never mentioned that was the plan before! I’ve already booked the hotel room and there is no way they're taking care of her when she gets out of here. No way!_

He tries to master his temper. Okay, fine. Maybe he never _explicitly_ said he was going to look after her, but isn’t it obvious he’d want to? Why the hell else would he have been glued to her side for the last seven days? Then again, he supposes he shouldn’t be surprised: the McHales have been uncharacteristically cool to him since their arrival and he can’t help thinking it’s because they blame him for sending MacKenzie into harm’s way.

“I don’t think—” Will starts, but MacKenzie’s mother goes on as if she hasn’t heard him.

“We’ve made reservations for you to fly home with us next Thursday. You can recuperate with us while you decide what you want to do next. Your boss told your father you can work out of the London bureau until you’re a hundred percent.”

“No!” Will cries. Everyone in the room turns to look at him. “I mean, that’s not—” He walks over to MacKenzie's bed and stares down at her. “Look, I know we haven’t had a chance to talk about it, but … _I_ want to take care of you. Here, when you’re released, and …” He takes a deep breath. “… while you recuperate. I'd like you to come back with me. To New York.” 

Lady McHale looks at him coldly. “I don't think that's an appropriate solution, William. Considering you're _not_ together.”

“You’re right, Penny,” Will says over his shoulder as he stares at MacKenzie, whose stomach falls. “Or ... you would be if we weren’t, but …” He swallows. “I’d really like it if we were.”

MacKenzie stares at him. _Are you saying—can you possibly be saying you've changed your mind?_

“What are you saying, Will?” 

“I’m saying I’ve been a damned fool but I love you, MacKenzie. With all my heart. And I never want to spend another second apart from you for as long as I live.”

She wants to believe him. Every fiber of her being wants to believe him but her mother's distrust is contagious and emotionally, she's no longer in quite the same place she was seven days ago. Things seem ... different somehow. More tenuous.

Can she afford to put her trust in a man who cast her out of his life without looking back? 

“I don’t understand, Will,” she says softly. "I still did what I did. What's changed?"


	6. Chapter 6

MacKenzie’s mother breaks in before Will has a chance to answer. “Mackie, you need to rest.”

“I’m fine, Mum.”

“Will,” Penny says, addressing him. “Surely even you can see how tired she is.”

 _Even me?_ Will opens his mouth to defend himself but it dies on his lips when he sees Penny’s expression: the last thing he needs to do is get into a pissing contest with Penny McHale. He has no idea what he’s done to piss her off (aside from the obvious) but her newfound animosity is exquisitely painful. She’s one of the kindest, most loving people Will has ever had the good fortune of knowing and he had, up until seven days ago, felt secure in her approbation. Indeed, on more than one occasion she’d told him she thought he and MacKenzie were perfectly suited to one another and that he was the only man they’d ever thought good enough for their daughter.

He’d walked on air for days the first time she’d said it: if her own mother thought they were a perfect match, well, that had to count for something, didn’t it? On a deeper level, it had been a very long time since Will had had anything like a mother figure in his life and he’d been absolutely delighted when she’d begun to feel free enough with him to take him to task over his poor posture or not eating enough or wearing shoes evidently in need of a polish.

MacKenzie can feel the tension between Will and her mother. She can guess why Penny’s demeanor toward him has suddenly turned icy cold but she doesn’t like it for his sake—she knows how much Will values Penny’s affection and her obvious disdain must be devastating. Besides, even if MacKenzie herself doesn’t fully understand Will's reasons for being here, it isn't because she questions his character: she knows he threw her out with the full courage of his convictions and if he’s back because he’s changed his mind he's got a very good reason.

And she’d like to hear it.

“ _I_ asked the question, Mum,” MacKenzie says. “And I’d like to hear the answer. Can you please give us a minute? Alone? We need to talk.”

“You need to rest, MacKenzie,” her mother repeats. “You can finish this conversation later. _If_ you insist on having it.”

_What has gotten into this woman?_

Will has no idea what’s happening right now, but MacKenzie _does_ look tired, so he can’t argue with the idea that putting the conversation off a bit longer might be in her best interests. He picks up her hand and gives it a gentle squeeze, hoping to convey through touch what he’s apparently not allowed to convey in words. “Mac, I _do_ have an answer to your question but your mum’s right—you’re looking a little worn out. How about if we table this discussion until after you’ve had a nap and some food? We can talk whenever you’re ready.”

MacKenzie shakes her head. She needs to know _now_ : she's already leap-frogged over the current messiness straight into living-happily-ever territory on account of his "I never want to spend another second apart from you for as long as I live" declaration, and if that’s not going to be an option because she can’t accept his reasoning she needs to know sooner rather than later. “I’m ready now, Will,” she says steadily, staring at him. “There is nothing more important to me than having this conversation.” She turns to her parents. “Mum, Dad, I’ll see you later.”

“Okay,” Will says uneasily, knowing full well her decision is not going to be popular with the McHales. “If that’s what you—”

But Penny doesn’t let him finish. “She’s obviously not thinking clearly, Will. I’m asking you to let her be.”

Will pauses. _Which McHale woman do I piss off?_ Of course, that's not a real question: MacKenzie’s the one who holds the key to his future happiness, so the answer is "Penny," of course. He’s just about to make that known when Penny goes on.

“Look, Will,” she says as if he’s somehow contradicted her. “We allowed you to stay with her because we trust you with her person and, frankly, someone with your status has access to services and specialists we don’t. We appreciate everything you’ve done for her, but we can take it from here.”

He’s been dismissed. _Oh. So, this is where we are_ , he thinks _. I’m nothing but an unwanted interloper in MacKenzie’s life: good enough to pull some strings but ultimately worthless._

Penny can see she’s wounded him but she refuses to back down. Until four months ago she’d been fond of Will McAvoy—very fond, indeed. MacKenzie had adored him and the feeling appeared to be mutual. She’d had had no doubt then about his dependability or his devotion to her daughter but now she questions both. Yes, MacKenzie should have been honest with Will from the beginning but she’d always been deeply insecure and deeply ashamed of that insecurity and Brian’s lies would have fed right into that. _She_ knew that about her daughter. Why hadn’t Will? Besides, anyone who saw the two of them together knew how devoted MacKenzie was to him, how she lit up as soon as he entered the room, how she fairly glowed around him. Why hadn’t that counted for anything?

Not only that, he’s clearly a man used to getting his way. He’s insisted on being privy to conversations with MacKenzie’s doctors and has been continually underfoot ever since they got here. Indeed, no matter how many times she’d varied her visiting hours she’d always found him sitting at MacKenzie’s bedside, holding her hand when she walked through the door.

Not to mention the way he’s insisted on sleeping in the same room with her. Penny hasn't worried about MacKenzie’s physical safety during these overnight sessions but her emotional one now is another matter. Her daughter is at risk of falling back into Will’s arms—blindly, heedlessly and recklessly—and Penny is no longer convinced he's suitable son-in-law material. He obviously cares for MacKenzie but it makes absolutely no sense to her: he completely cut her out of his life and now he’s trying to insinuate himself into every crevice of hers? What can he mean by it? She’s tempted to ask but she thinks she already knows the answer: Will is a man who prefers to be in control. She’d never seen that particular shade in his character before but she can’t afford to overlook it now.

Still ... something in Will's expression gives her pause. _Am I being unreasonable? Will's wanting to be in control can't fully account for his continued presence at her bedside; am I just looking for someone to blame?_ But she pushes the thought from her mind. No. She's spent the last week being terrified out of her mind and she feels quite comfortable laying it (well, most of it, anyway) at his feet. He almost killed her.

“Will, shall we?” she says, extending an arm out for him to take.

He acknowledges the gesture but keeps his one free arm at his side. "Thanks, Penny, but if Mac wants to talk, I’d like to stay. I’ll keep it short.”

“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” Penny says.

Penny’s rejection injures and angers him but he tries to introduce a small measure of levity into the atmosphere. “You’ve made that perfectly clear, Penny,” he says lightly.

 _Who does he think he is, continuing to put my daughter's health at risk?_ “She’s tired and she needs to rest, Will. She doesn’t need to be bullied into submission.”

“ _Mum!"_

“You think that's what I'm trying to do?" Will says quietly, honestly bewildered. "I’m not. I just want to talk if that’s what she wants."

“Mum, _stop_. I know you’re trying to protect me but it’s not necessary.”

 _Fine. Let's have this out._ “I think it is, Mackie. You’re going to fall right back into this and he’s going to hurt you again.”

“Penny, you don’t have to worry—" He stops as he tries to find the words to convey how much her daughter means to him and that he has no intention of ever hurting her again.

The look Penny levels at him—sneering and contemptuous—is a well-aimed wallop to the gut.

“Is that what your father told your mother, Will?”

He inhales sharply, stunned at this new angle of attack. “Excuse me?” 

“That she didn’t have to worry? Was that before or after he put her in the hospital?”

“Mum!”

“I—.” He doesn’t know what to say. The insinuation is so awful and meshes so deeply with the fear he's carried around since he was a teenager regarding his own potential for mayhem that hot tears prick at his eyes. White-faced, trembling, he searches for speech; to have Penny turn on him is like being bitten to death by a butterfly. Is that what she thinks of him now? Penny is good and kind and he can't help thinking that if she hates him it is perhaps because he deserves it. He quickly catalogues his behavior over the last several days and all he can come up with is the single thought that has guided his every move: _MacKenzie must come through this with as little long-term damage, pain and emotional upheaval as possible_.

He’d tried not to step on the McHales’ toes, had tried to let them take the lead in her care, but when he thinks back on it, he _has_ questioned a few of their choices: like allowing a doctor who’d had two malpractice complaints lodged against him (Will had discovered _that_ through his sources) oversee her chart for two nights in a row. Or the incident that had occurred just yesterday: he’d questioned a nurse who’d wanted to administer a dose of medication an hour after MacKenzie had received the last one. Penny had told him he was overreacting and that she was sure the nurse knew what she was doing but Will’s meticulous recordkeeping had paid off: MacKenzie had narrowly escaped an overdose because the previous nurse had just come off a fourteen-hour shift and had written _10:00_ as the time for the next dose instead of _1:00_.

Will knows this is going off the rails but he has no idea why or how to stop it. “I would _never_ hurt—" he says earnestly, pleading with her to believe him, to not think the worst of him. If Penny McHale, one of the kindest, most loving people he’s ever known—thinks him capable of harming a hair on MacKenzie’s head he won’t be able to bear it.

“You already have. Who knows what you’ll do next if given the chance?”

“Mum! Stop it!”

“Penny,” he says slowly. “I don’t know what I’ve done to make you—” 

“You don’t know what you’ve done?" she bites out. "Let me enlighten you: your rejection sent my daughter into a war zone and she almost _died_.” Penny McHale is a forgiving woman, but she will never forgive him _that_ , no matter how many specialists and favors he calls in. He did those things after the fact. The true test of his character had been when MacKenzie had confessed her sin. And he had _failed_.

“That was my choice, Mum, _mine_!” 

“You wouldn’t have gone if he’d loved you enough to listen.”

Will stands there, shocked, wounded, and consumed by self-loathing. She’s just held a mirror up to his actions and of course, she’s right. He can’t possibly defend himself: he's lodged the same charges against himself dozens of times over the last week.

"Please. Just _stop,_ ” MacKenzie cries.

“I won't. Because I think you're in danger. I think the apple didn't fall far from the tree, Mackie," she says with devastating and savage clarity. "And the sooner you acknowledge that the better. Will is a bully. Just like his father.”

“How _dare_ you?!” MacKenzie cries. “That is _not_ true and you know it!” She holds out her hand to Will but he stands there woodenly. Is that _actually_ what Penny thinks of him? That he’s just like his fucking _father_? His mind replays the events of the last week and on that day four months ago. Insisting on having his own way. Brooking no argument. He'd told himself it was for the greater good but he'd thrown his weight around just the same. _She’s right. She’s right. I’m just like him. I’m a piece of shit. Just like he is._

He can feel the pressure building behind his eyes and suddenly it’s all just too fucking much for him: the events of the last week, the coldness from the McHales, MacKenzie’s obvious doubts about him. He’s been fighting an uphill battle and he is alone, unwanted and everyone thinks the absolute worst of him. He turns away from them but not before MacKenzie sees his eyes fill with tears. He gives a hurried, “I’m sorry. I’ll go. Excuse me,” to no one in particular. He looks down, unable to look anyone in the eye and heads for the door.

“No! Oh, Billy!” MacKenzie cries. “It's not true, it's not true! Don’t go! Please!” He shakes his head and then he’s out the door.

How could her mother be so cruel? She'd said the worst thing anyone could possibly say to him! Was she _trying_ to destroy him?

“Billy!” she calls after him. “Come back! Please!” She turns on her mother. “What is the _matter_ with you?! Go after him! Bring him _back_!”

But her parents aren't moving, so MacKenzie starts trying to lower the bedrail. _I have to find him. I have to. I have to._ That finally spurs the McHales into action ("Mackie, don't!") and at that moment Evelyn comes barreling in. “What is going _on_?”

“Will!" MacKenzie cries. "Did you see where he went? Go get him, please! Please, please go get him!”

“You need to calm down, MacKenzie,” Evelyn says. “He’ll be back. Wild horses couldn’t keep him away.”

“Bring him _back!_ ” she shrieks at her mother and father, tears streaming down her face. “Bring him _back_! Or, I will _never_ forgive you!"


	7. Chapter 7

“I’ll go. I’ll go, Mackie,” her father says and makes a swift exit.

MacKenzie rounds on her mother, heedless of Evelyn, who’s trying to calm her down.

“How could you say those things to him, Mum?” MacKenzie cries. “How could you hurt him like that?”

“Mrs. McHale,” Evelyn tells her. “I think you should leave.”

But Penny just stands there, stunned and horrified at what came out of her mouth. She knows why she said it: she wanted to protect her daughter. And perhaps she wanted to hurt Will so badly he’d never come back. But the look on his face. The horror and shame and self-loathing on his face. The way he’d seemed to cave in on himself. She doesn’t know what came over her, not exactly; bits and pieces, maybe, but not how it all fits together.

For the first time, she wonders how Will has become the focus of her wrath. He hadn’t forced MacKenzie into taking that assignment—she’d done it herself. In fact, hadn’t Charlie said MacKenzie had asked him to put in a good word for her with the man who ran CNN’s international coverage? When looked at objectively, Will’s only crime—aside from being constantly underfoot these days—was in breaking up with MacKenzie. Which was something perfectly within his rights. So why has she been so resolved to put the blame on him?

She can’t work it out. But she knows one thing: as she lifts her eyes to meet the outraged gaze of her daughter she’s never been so ashamed of herself in her life.

“Do you know what you just compared him to?” MacKenzie cries. “You said he was no better than a man who burned his children with cigarettes! Who made them strip naked before he whipped them with an electrical cord!”

 _Oh, God_ , Penny thinks with shame. She had no idea. None. She knew Will’s father was a terrible drunk who’d beaten his wife badly enough to put her in the hospital but MacKenzie had never mentioned the children—out of loyalty to Will.

The full force of MacKenzie’s fury fills her mother with shame.

“ _That_ man is a _monster_ ,” MacKenzie cries. “… and Will is nothing like him! _Nothing!_ Will’s always been afraid of turning into his father and you just told him he has. How could you?”

Penny feels sick with guilt and remorse. ”I’m sorry, Mackie,” she says quietly, utterly ashamed. “I’m sorry. I’ll make it up to him. I’ll apologize.”

“No! You will not say a word to him!” She peers over Evelyn’s head through the door and into the hallway. “Oh God, where is Dad? He has to find him.”

\--------

The sound Will’s loafers make as they squeak against the tile is entirely unmanly. And the way he marches down the hall like a renegade soldier disgusts even himself. His throat tightens as he tries to imagine what it might take to walk them back from this particular precipice. _She_ doesn’t hate him but her parents do. Where, if anywhere, does that leave them? He rounds a corner and narrowly avoids sending an orderly bearing a lunch tray careering into a patient being pushed into an elevator. Will emits a hurried “Sorry” as he and the orderly both tilt awkwardly on their tiptoes before righting themselves and continuing on their way. The near-miss sends adrenaline coursing through Will’s nerve endings but it’s not enough to invigorate his spirit or his mind, which is more exhausted than his body; so many sleepless nights and restless days. His thoughts are blurred and confused and he can’t decide what to do next.

Sixty feet from MacKenzie’s room he stops to catch his breath and a deep, prolonged sigh escapes him. Penny’s cutting words echo in his mind but as they do, thin pinpricks of outrage slowly begin to bloom along the borders of those lacerations: _How dare she accuse me of being like my father? How dare she act as if I haven’t tried to do my very best for MacKenzie?_

And suddenly, he catches the song: he’s allowed himself to be sidetracked by the trivial and unimportant. MacKenzie’s insistence on having this conversation means she’s open to being convinced and _that_ is the only thing that matters. _Idiot_. He turns around and starts heading back in the opposite direction.

As he rounds another corner, he narrowly avoids plowing into yet another hospital denizen, this one Lord McHale. He falls into lockstep beside him.

“Are you going back to Mackie’s room?” he asks.

Will nods.

“Good. She’s beside herself, thinking you left. I’m afraid she’s going to hurt herself.” Will glances at him and starts walking faster.

“Will,” Lord McHale says, rushing to keep up with him. “I’m sorry about what Penny said. I should have intervened—”

“Forget it,” Will says, dismissing him.

“She didn’t mean it,” Lord McHale insists. Will gives him a cursory glance and he can’t help noticing the man looks as if he’s aged twenty years in the last week. “That’s not what she thinks,” Lord McHale says. “It’s not what either of us thinks. You’ve done more for Mackie this week than we can ever repay you for and I know you want only the best for her.” He looks at Will earnestly. “I know that. And so does Penny.” He pauses and then goes on in a quiet voice. “I think we’ve both been looking for someone to blame. I’m sorry.”

“Like I said: forget it,” Will says gruffly. He appreciates the gesture but right now he has more important things to worry about: like calming MacKenzie down and securing her affection. When he reaches the door to her room he strides purposefully toward her bed. He doesn’t hear the relieved sigh that escapes Penny’s lips when he walks through the door.

“Billy!” MacKenzie cries, holding out her hand to him. “What Mum said—it _isn’t_ —”

“I know,” he says, taking her outstretched fingers. “It doesn’t matter. Don’t worry about it. Everything’s fine.”

“Will,” Penny says haltingly from behind him. “I’m sorry—I owe you an—”

“You don’t owe me anything, Penny,” he says, staring at MacKenzie. Then a thought occurs to him and he turns around. “No, wait. You do.” He says it because he won't put up with it and this has to stop here. He fixes his formidable stare on her and Penny can feel herself shrinking from his gaze. She’s seen him level it at others onscreen, but it has never been directed at her and she can say with absolute certainty that it’s most unpleasant.

His voice is forceful and vehement and while he notes Evelyn’s presence he’s sure the confidentiality agreement Charlie made her sign will have its effect. “Let’s get one thing straight: if you ever catch me breaking my son’s arm because he struck out at the plate or locking him in his room for three days without food because he forgot to water the lawn, feel free to tell me I’m just like my father—right after you call the police. But otherwise, _don’t_.”

He stares hard at her and when her lips part to respond he raises his hand to ward off any further comment. “I’m sorry you don’t like me anymore, Penny. I truly am, but it doesn’t matter. What matters is whether _she_ likes me,” he says, gesturing behind him to MacKenzie. “Because she’s the one who’s going to have to live with me. I hope. Now, will you excuse us?” He turns back to MacKenzie. “We have a conversation to finish.”

Penny is silent for a moment, unsure of how to respond, then nods her assent. “Alright,” she says, giving her daughter a bright, false smile. “We’ll be back tonight, Mackie. After dinner.”

“Okay,” MacKenzie says, never taking her eyes off Will.

The door closes behind Evelyn and MacKenzie’s parents and MacKenzie and Will stare wordlessly at each other, unexpectedly tongue-tied. The air is thick with equal parts tension and hope and suddenly, MacKenzie feels as if she can’t breathe, suffocating in an atmosphere crackling with nervous energy. Will’s deafening silence holds them in its grasp and MacKenzie is keenly aware of the whirring of the clock on the wall. Will clears his throat and the stillness in the room does little to hide the sound.

 _Are we just going to stare at each other all day?_ MacKenzie draws a deep, steadying breath and looks up at him, determined to have some conversation. About _something._

“Are you okay?” she says.

“Yeah,” he nods. And he is. Mostly. He just doesn’t know how to begin.

But MacKenzie does: she needs him to know that everything her mother said to him was an idiotic lie borne of fear and God knows what else. “I’m sorry she—”

He puts his hands up. “Can we not talk about it?”

She closes her mouth and nods but when the silence becomes insupportable once more she decides to break it. “I can feel how upset you are, Will,” she says softly. “It can’t have been easy for you to hear her—”

“You’re right,” he says, interrupting her. “It wasn’t.” He sighs. “But … it doesn’t matter, Mac. I’ll live.” He stares at her intently. “You’re what’s important. You—getting well—that’s all that matters.”

She clears her throat, then, a clumsy endeavour. “Okay,” she relents. “Shall we finish that conversation, then?”

He nods.

“Alright. I’ll ask you again: what’s changed?”

He looks down, considering. His head is bowed in quiet contemplation and the silence stretches on for several long moments until at long last he finally raises his eyes to hers. Fixing his gaze firmly upon her face, he draws a choppy breath before finally declaring, “Me, I guess. The way I look at what happened.”

“Meaning?”

“You didn’t do it because you didn’t care. That’s what you said in your email, right? You did it because you believed what he said about me, which was that I was a womanizer.”

She nods.

He shrugs. “I can accept that.” The muscles in his jaw and temples tense and the determination on his face is unmistakable.

But she can only shake her head in reply. “I don’t believe you, Will,” she says softly. “You threw me out of your life without so much as a second glance. There's no way you no longer care about what I did."

He shakes his head. “I didn’t say I didn’t care. I said I could accept it. Because now I understand.”

She tilts her chin up and looks at him quizzically. “What? What do you understand?”

“That what you did had nothing to do with us. We hadn’t been invented yet.”

“Please stop talking in riddles, Will.”

He strokes her fingers, his touch sending delicious pinpricks of sensation throughout her body. “You didn’t betray _us_ , MacKenzie …” He can hear is voice quaver and he wonders why expressing his profound attachment to the idea of them as a couple is making his throat close and his eyes water. “… the couple we were or the love we shared. If you’d done it after we’d fallen in love with each other or ... after we’d spent years building our lives together, I couldn’t accept it. But you didn’t—you did it before you knew what kind of man I am or even how you felt about me.” He pauses, trying to figure out how to explain that what she did simply doesn’t matter to him anymore. Not now, not when he'd almost lost her permanently and not when he knows she’d done it before he meant something to her. “You didn’t betray _us_ , MacKenzie. And that makes all the difference in the world to me.”

His voice cracks again as he stares at her battered, bruised face. It’s a potent reminder that he almost lost the most precious thing in his life because he couldn’t get outside himself long enough to see that things in the real world aren’t always black and white. He stares at her, ashamed to admit that his misplaced trust in his own righteousness had concocted a potion that had harmed the woman he’d loved since the moment he met her. But she doesn’t look convinced so he presses on. 

“I love you. I should have given you a chance to explain. I didn’t because I assumed what you did meant you never loved me and that everything we had was a lie. But that wasn’t true, was it? You _did_ love me, but you didn’t always. And that’s when it happened, right?”

She nods and he takes a deep breath. “I get it. So … when you’re up for it, I’d like to have a do-over of that conversation. So I can respond the way I should have responded. Okay?”

She's just about to reply when the door bursts open to admit an orderly bearing lunch on two trays. When he offers one to MacKenzie and one to Will, MacKenzie raises her eyebrows in Will's direction. He shrugs, setting his tray on the table beside her bed. “Apparently, my donation to the hospital entitles me to free food.”

“I see,” she says. She fiddles with the fork on her tray.

“You okay to eat?” he says, staring at her. “Do you need some help?”

“I can manage,” she says, picking up an unappetizing bit of overcooked vegetable and bringing it to her lips. He watches as she takes a tiny, experimental bite. Judging it edible, she raises her fork in his direction and motions for him to do the same.

He sits down and grimaces as he takes a tentative spoonful of soup. “Mine tastes like soapy water. Yours?”

She giggles and the sound makes him feel light and content, as though someone has opened a door and poured liquid sunshine into his soul.

“The same,” she smiles.

“First stop is Sardi’s when we get …” He stops.

“… home?” she finishes. He nods and her smile fades. “About that.” She takes another tentative bite. “We should have the do-over conversation first. So, let’s do that.”

But Will can’t—not in good conscience. She looks terrible. Her eyes are bloodshot, and exhaustion is etched in her features. “Honey—you should rest. We can talk about this later. I’m not going anywhere.” He pauses. “Unless … you want me to?”

She shakes her head. “I don’t. But I’m not going to be able to rest until I know what my future looks like. So, humor me. Please.”

“Okay,” he says, abandoning his food and pulling his chair up to the bed. “But let’s make it brief, okay?”

“Okay.”

He casts back to the day everything had fallen apart. _How did it all begin?_ “That morning. When it happened. We were having a debate about something.”

“Lies of omission versus lies of commission,” she reminds him. “Which one’s worse.”

“Right. I said something like ‘Lies of omission are just as bad as lies of commission’ and you said something and suddenly I got the feeling this was more than a theoretical discussion. You asked me if I could forgive a lie of omission and I said it would depend on what it was.”

She swallows, reluctant to bring up the exact sentence that had jettisoned everything to hell four months ago. “And I said, what if it was something like, ‘I slept with my ex-boyfriend a few times when you and I were first dating’?”

“Yeah,” he breathes, pausing as he remembers the fear that had taken hold of his heart just then. “I froze for a second as I realized what you might be telling me. Then I asked if you were confessing something that actually happened and you said ‘yes.’” He pauses, the weight of his past words resting heavily on his chest. “And then I told you to get the fuck out of my life.”

She nods, her stomach clenching at the memory of the moment she realized he was serious. “Yes. And I left,” she says. “And we haven't spoken since."

“Right. So, say it again. The thing about what you did. And I’ll respond the way I should have responded. Okay?”

“Okay.” She takes a deep breath, repeats her confession and holds her breath as she waits for him to respond.

“How many times?” he says, his stomach lurching as he waits for her response. He wonders what the magic number is—the one that will be too high for him to accept.

“Four.”

He exhales in relief. _Four. Four times. That’s not such a very big number._ “When did it stop?”

“When you and I had been together a month.”

“Did it happen after that?”

“No.”

“Did you want it to? Are you in love with him?” There’s an urgency in his voice that tells MacKenzie how important this question is to him and her heart races so fast she’s sure it echoes throughout the room.

“No.”

Will studies her as though measuring her sincerity.

“Why did you stop seeing him?”

“Because I fell in love with you. And I realized that I wasn’t just another notch on your bedpost. That I actually meant something to you."

He wonders if she can sense the nervousness that tugs at his fingertips. “How did you break it off?”

“I told him what I just told you.”

“What was his reaction?”

“He told me I was a fool and that I was going to learn what happens to little girls who think they’re big enough to play in the big leagues.”

 _Asshole._ “And what did you say?”

“I told him he was an idiot and that I was through believing his lies.”

“Did he give up?”

She plucks a thread off the blanket on her bed, fingering it nervously. “No. He just switched tactics.”

_Kenz, I love you. Will’s going to abandon you as soon as he finds someone new._

“Meaning?”

She shifts restlessly, releasing the medicinal scent of her soap into his nostrils. “He started calling and telling me how much he missed me.”

“And what did you say?”

“I told him I wasn’t interested and that he needed to stop calling. That’s when I changed my phone number.”

“Okay,” he says slowly. “Would you do it again? With him ... or with anyone else?”

She looks at him steadily. “No.”

“Never?”

“Never.”

“Why?”

“Because … my commitment was … and would be …. to you.”

“What if you met someone else? Someone you’re attracted to?”

 _What kind of nonsensical path are you trying to take us down?_ “It’s happened before, Billy. And I haven’t acted on it. And I never would.”

 _It’s happened before? When we were together?_ _Jesus._ “You were attracted to someone else when we were together? Who?”

She stifles the urge to roll her eyes. “I’m not talking about a soul-deep attraction, Will. I’m talking about fleeting moments. You know … the kind that happen when you look at someone or talk to someone and it registers that they’re cute or funny or likable.”

Okay. He can accept that. _But …_ “What would happen if you ever _did_ feel a soul-deep attraction to someone else?”

This time, she is unable to suppress the urge. She rolls her eyes, netting an indignant ‘What?’ from Will—as if he’s just asked the most reasonable question in the world. She sighs. “Soul-deep attraction takes time to develop, Will,” she explains, as if speaking to a child. “It’s something you have to be open to. And I’m not. Or … wouldn’t be. If we were together. But I can promise you that even if I _did_ meet someone who knocked my socks off, I wouldn’t act on it. Because I’d be committed to you.”

That does not make him feel any better. In fact, it does the opposite. “See, that scares me a little. Because I don’t believe I could ever feel for someone else what I feel for you. And the fact that you do is …” He tries to find a neutral word. “… disturbing.”

 _Are you trying to hang me for an offense I haven’t committed yet? Get over yourself._ “We’re human, Will,” she says in frustration. “We’re programmed to be attracted to other people. But when we’re in a committed relationship we don't act on it. That’s the rule.”

He doesn’t look convinced.

“Look. When you met me,” she says, “I checked all your boxes. And since there are 6.7 billion _other_ people in the world, chances are there’s someone else out there who does the same. You just haven’t met her yet. Are you going to throw me over if you do?”

“Of course not.”

“Why not? What if she ticks all the boxes I do plus two you never even knew you had?”

“Because I’m committed to you. And not just to you, personally, but to the life we would build together.”

“Exactly. Which means children and a home and work and everything that goes with it. I wouldn’t blow that up just because I notice someone else has a nice ass and I’d damned well expect you not to, either.”

 _Fine. I suppose that’s reasonable._ “Okay.”

She sighs. “What does that mean?”

“It means I can accept that, too. So …” he says, raising her fingers to his lips. “That’s good enough for me. Is there anything you want to add?”

She shakes her head, grips his hand tightly and draws it toward her, tugging him closer. “No. I’m tired, Will. The last four months have been hell on earth and I just want you to tell me this nightmare is over. Is it?”

“It is,” he says, getting to his feet. “Definitely.” He bends down and as their foreheads meet, she parts her lips in anticipation, her whole body tingling at the unspeakably delicious knowledge that he needs only to move a hair’s breadth nearer to bring their lips together. His hand becomes a support as he tilts her chin upwards and she waits breathlessly for him to claim her. But before he can close the circuit a memory of her reflection in the mirror flashes before her eyes and she looks down, embarrassed.

His kiss lands on her cheek.

“What’s wrong?” he asks.

“Nothing,” she whispers, unable to look at him. “I just remembered I look like a prizefighter is all.”

He smiles, puts his finger under her chin, lifts it up and stares into her eyes, his expression serious. “Don’t hide from me, MacKenzie. Don’t ever hide from me. You’re still you. And _you_ are the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.”

“You can’t possibly mean that.”

“I do. Trust me.”

She searches his eyes for insincerity but finds none: his expression is tender and open and everything it was four months ago. Adoring. _How is that possible?_

He bends down again and when he gently brushes his lips against hers, they both stop breathing. A feeling of perfect satiety and contentment rushes through him: _This is home. This is where I belong._ She is his other half and they fit together. Perfectly. It’s a feeling he’s only ever had with her and he knows he’s been a damned fool to let anything come between them.

She opens her lips and his tongue slips into her mouth. Little jolts of pleasure play on her skin, beneath it and she jumps as the unexpected sensation echoes in her nipples and between her thighs. She wants to deepen the kiss so she brings her hand up to the back of his head but before she can pull him closer he pulls away. She stares at him in frustration and clutches at his shirt collar, unwilling to let him go. He tilts his head to whisper in her ear and the vibration of his lips against her skin sends additional little electric shocks throughout her body. “I know we have a lot to talk about,” he whispers. “And we will, but you should rest.”

She stares at him with darkened eyes. “Stay,” she murmurs. 

“I’ll be back,” he tells her.

“No,” she says, shaking her head. “Don’t go. Please. Stay with me.”

“While you sleep?”

“Yes,” she says and inspiration strikes when she notes his own eyes are ringed with dark circles. She reaches down to the outside of the bedrail and starts feeling around blindly.

“What are you doing?” he asks.

“Do you know how to get this down?”

“Why? Do you need to—”

“Yes. Can you help me figure it out?”

“Sure.” She lets go of his collar and he goes around to the other side of her bed. He fiddles with the mechanism and when he lowers the bedrail, he extends his arm to her, motioning for her to take it.

“I don’t need to get up, Will,” she tells him. “You look exhausted. You should have a nap, too. Here.” She bites her lower lip and pats the side of her bed. “With me.”

He hesitates. Still, he can’t help the wide grin that breaks over his face. “Are you sure? I don’t want to crowd you—”

“You won’t.”

She turns gingerly to one side and pats the space in front of her once more.

“Okay,” he says. He carefully climbs in and stretches out on his side, facing her. As she stares at him, she can feel her eyes misting over. She’s missed him so much, has missed being this close to him so much that she can’t help leaning toward him and pressing her lips against his.

“I’ve missed you so much, Will,” she says, the words catching in her throat.

“I’ve missed you, too, sweetheart,” he says.

He turns on his back as in days of old, raises his arm and she puts her head on his chest. How blissful to be held thus again, his cheek a warm pressure on her head, his thundering heartbeat the most soothing sound in the entire world to her. No other sounds, no words. Just silent, blissful healing of an anguish that is too many months old. Though her problems are far from over, MacKenzie feels lighter, so much lighter than before. Except for the painful loss of Ameena, the knowledge of the events that brought her to this hospital and the aches and pains in her body, she feels as though a great mental burden has been lifted from her shoulders. For the first time since that fateful day four months ago, happiness is within her reach and she’s determined to grasp it.

“I love you,” he whispers, unable to resist dropping a kiss into her hair. “I’m sorry I didn’t listen.”

“All is forgiven, Will. I love you, too.”

They lay there for a while in silence, but sleep eludes him. Such a storm of feelings, wishes, thoughts, and worries are inside him that he’s afraid he won’t be able to find his way out. She feels it, too: is there a word to describe that strange mixture of utter calm and complete unrest one feels when in the presence of a loved one to whom one is deeply attracted? After a few minutes, he looks down to find she’s still awake, though her eyelids are heavy. He knows he should probably wait to have this discussion until she’s had her nap and/or isn’t hopped up on morphine, but he wants things settled and he wants her to know just how little he cares about the past. She feels him fumbling with something in his pants pocket and then she hears his voice, a tentative rumbling in his chest. “You don’t have to give me an answer now, but I’d like to put this out there.”

She raises her head and looks at him with sleepy eyes. “What?”

He brings his hand above her face and her eyes widen when she sees his pinched fingers are holding a beautiful diamond ring. He raises himself up on one elbow to stare down into her face, his expression a mix of love and certainty and tenderness. “I love you, MacKenzie. More than I’ve ever loved anyone or anything in my life. I want to spend the rest of my life loving you and being loved by you. So, when you’re feeling better, I’m going to ask you to marry me. Is that okay?”

“Yes _._ But you don’t have to wait. Ask me now.”

“But you—”

“Ask me now, Will.”

He smiles and leans down to brush a tentative kiss against her lips. Then he raises his head and stares down at her. “MacKenzie Morgan McHale, will you marry me?”

“Yes,” she says without hesitation. She holds out her hand, presents her ring finger to him and a huge smile breaks out on his face. He gazes at her, beaming as he slips the ring on her finger.

“It fits,” she exclaims in wonder. “How did you know my ring size?”

He gives her a sheepish smile. “I may have measured your finger while you were unconscious.”

“Will!”

“I was bored. And I had the measuring tape. I didn’t think you’d mind.”

She looks at the ring admiringly. It’s something she’d have chosen for herself. “I didn’t realize hospital gift shops had such nice rings.”

“They don’t. Evelyn’s brother-in-law is a jeweler.”

“Ah,” she says in understanding. “Evelyn.” Evelyn is a bit older than MacKenzie, pretty, confident yet unassuming. If Will hadn’t just proposed, she might be a little jealous. She still is, actually. “You and Evelyn are good friends now, aren’t you?”

“She’s been someone to talk to. It’s not as if your parents have been talking my ear off.”

“I think she might have a little crush on you.”

“Not a chance,” he scoffs. “You should see her when her much-younger, much-handsomer fiancé is around. She practically glows.”

“So … I’m getting a lemon?”

“Some might think so,” he says, stroking her hair. “I hope you don’t.”

“I don’t,” she says, snuggling as close to him as her battered body will allow. They both fall into a dreamless sleep.


	8. Chapter 8

_Two weeks later_

MacKenzie watches the show from her parents' house, wishing she hadn’t insisted on having them look after her so Will could get back to work. Though he’d caviled and carped, insisting that absolutely no good could come from them being separated for a month, he’d given in at the end. She misses him terribly but she supposes it’s for the best. She wants to be whole when she comes to him, healed and ready to resume their life together in every way.

The next two weeks are a blur of doctors’ appointments and physical therapy and rest and exercises to help her regain her strength. She and Will FaceTime every day, discussing their future. Neither wants to wait, so a big wedding is out of the question; they’ll marry three days after she arrives in New York in a civil ceremony at City Hall. There are vague plans for a reception in the UK sometime later in the year but Will harbors a secret wish she’ll forget it; while he and the senior McHales have arrived at an uneasy truce the thought of hobnobbing with the other hundred or so members of the McHale clan leaves him cold. Will’s EP is moving to Los Angeles and MacKenzie will take over when he leaves (though members of the staff don't know it yet). Charlie has offered her her choice of senior producers, so she’s poaching Jim from CNN.

Which is how, five weeks after the explosion, she finds herself sitting in Heathrow waiting for her flight to be called.

She looks at her watch, anticipation bubbling in her chest.

 _Only eight hours now._ Eight hours until he finishes the show and comes home. To her.

\----

_Seven hours later_

The voice of his EP is in his ear. “Thirty seconds. Your phone’s in the shot. Can you stow it?”

 _Dammit._ The alert saying her plane had arrived came in an hour ago, and for the life of him he can’t remember if she was supposed to let him know when she landed or when she got to the apartment. Either way, the wait is killing him. _Why the hell hasn’t she texted?_ He’s already dashed off two to her—one during each of the last commercial breaks—but she hasn’t responded.

“Just a second,” he says to his EP. He keeps one eye trained on the second counter on the clock and the other on his phone. Twenty seconds to go. Ten. Five. _Shit._ He grabs the phone, shoves it into his suit jacket pocket and puts on his game face. He manages to make it through the next segment and when it ends barks “How long?” into his mic. “Sixty seconds,” his EP says and everyone in the control booth watches, amused, as Will lays his cell phone on the desk and stares at it as if willing it to do … something.

“Does he have a hot date?” the sound man wonders aloud but no one answers.

Forty seconds after Will starts interviewing his last guest, he feels the vibration against his chest and ignores the urge to whoop with joy: he will not hoot on national television. He will not tell his guest to f-off so he can read a text. He _will_ keep his face neutral.

Eventually—mercifully—the red light goes off and since it's a Friday night the studio empties of everyone but Will in record time. Those who are eager to find out what has their anchor so agitated, however, head for the control room, certain they won't be disappointed (it's not the first the sound man has forgotten to cut the sound from the studio). Everyone titters as they watch Will fumble with his phone and then drop it in his haste to punch the numbers. 

MacKenzie picks up on the second ring. “Good show, Billy.”

“You’re here,” he says without preamble.

“Yes.”

He relaxes, wiping his hand across his forehead. “In my apartment? I mean— _our_ apartment?”

She laughs. “Yes.”

“That’s good. That’s really good,” he says, grinning. He opens his briefcase and starts to stuff the papers off the desk into it.

“Is it?”

“Yes. I’ve been on tenterhooks all day, waiting for you. I feel like I’m about to vibrate out of my skin.”

She twirls her finger in her hair and presses the phone more closely to her ear, enjoying the sound of his voice, the tone he reserves just for her. “You hid it well.”

“Yeah, well, I’m a pro. But I’m not going to be able to hide it much longer.” His tone is wicked and laden with meaning and MacKenzie's heart starts beating a little faster at a memory of his last kiss—weeks ago.

“Is that a promise?" 

"Yes," he says, shoving a pen in his pocket and ignoring the pricks of anticipation that are running through his body (no need to humiliate himself in front of whoever is left in the control room). "Do you want me to pick up dinner?”

“No, we can order when you get home. You _are_ coming home now, yes?”

She glances into the kitchen, wondering at the broken glass in the oven door. The rest of the apartment is immaculate as always and she’s disappointed none of the furnishings she gave him seem to have survived her purge from his life.

“Yes. I just have to get changed.”

“Okay," she says, running her fingers down a picture frame that holds a photo of Will and his nieces. Her stomach clenches in a knot when she looks around at the others displayed around the apartment. None are of she and Will. _Did you throw everything away?_

She tries to shake herself out of it. "I’m going to have a quick shower. I’ll see you in a—”

“Wait," he says, stopping her. "Which bathroom?”

She looks down at her nails. “The one in your room.”

“Our room," he corrects her. "And don't. Didn’t you see the sign?”

She looks around, confused. “Like a bolt of lightning from the sky? No.”

“Like the one on the bedroom door. The one that says ' _Do not enter until Will gets home_.'”

“No, I didn’t,” she says. “I haven’t been down the hall yet. But I’ll go now.”

“Don’t open the door!”

She starts making her way towards the bedroom and there it is, a white piece of paper taped to the door. The letters are bold and decisive, just like the man himself. "I see it now," she says. She runs her hand down the paper, wondering what Will has in store for her. “Why don't you want me to open the door?” she asks innocently. 

“Because you’ll spoil the surprise. Have your shower in the guest bath, okay?” He starts shoving papers into his briefcase more quickly. “It’s got all the stuff you like in there: the lavender body gel, the shampoo, the conditioner, the lotion, the whatever-the-hell weird kind of sponge you use—”

“I thought you’d have thrown all that away,” she says, touched that at least he kept _some_ things.

“I did throw it away,” he confesses. “But I bought it again.”

“Oh,” she says softly. A little sadly.

Will doesn't miss the shift in her tone. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.”

“Honey, what is it? Is it because I threw your crap away?”

“I suppose.” She looks around and the apartment suddenly feels cold instead of welcoming. “Being here—seeing the extent to which you erased me from your life—imagining how you must have felt about me all this time—it’s a lot to take in.” She shakes her head, trying to clear it. “Never mind. I'll get over it.”

“I’m sorry—I was just trying to—“

“I know. It’s just … you really hated me, didn’t you?”

“ _No_ ,” he says fiercely, setting his briefcase on the desk. He runs his fingers through his hair, trying to figure out a way to convey the fact that every reminder of her was pure torture. “I _never_ hated you. I was angry and hurt and I didn’t want to be reminded of what I lost. That’s all.”

“Okay,” she sighs.

"I didn't throw everything away," he qualifies. Did some part of him know their separation was only going to be temporary? "Some of it's in storage." Photos, little mementoes she'd given him he couldn't quite bring himself to toss in the dumpster. At this moment he sincerely regrets not taking the time to make the annoying trip out to the storage facility. "We'll get it out, see where we are and replace whatever's missing."

“Some things can’t be replaced.” Like the McAvoy tartan she had custom-made in Ireland. Or the tiny, sweet vase her niece had fashioned for him, all square curves and wiggly lines for the uncle who'd presented her with flowers at her ballet recital.

 _Like you_ , he thinks.

"True," he concedes. "And some things won't need to be, I promise. We can go out there tomorrow, okay?"

"Okay," she sighs. "I’ll see you in fifteen. I love you.”

“I love you, too,” he says snapping his briefcase shut. “Wait. Have I told you how happy I am that you’re here?”

His voice is warm and sweet and her mood begins to lighten. “Not in the last sixty seconds, no. I don’t think so.”

“Well, I am," he says sincerely. "The word ‘ecstatic’ doesn’t begin to cover it.”

“Well, I just hope the reality doesn’t disappoint.”

“You could never disappoint me, MacKenzie. You have always, _always_ exceeded my expectations. In every way."

The ears of everyone in the control room prick up. _They’re back together?_

 _Kristen’s going to be pissed_ , Kendra thinks. The seven o’clock anchor has a crush on Will and Kendra knows for a fact Kristen thinks she’s _thisclose_ to making something happen between them. Kendra’s not looking forward to breaking the news but she’s happy for MacKenzie and Will because they belong together. They just do. 

“You’re sweet,” MacKenzie tells him. “Delusional, but sweet.”

“Not delusional. Just madly in love with you.”

“Same thing. But I’ll take it.”

Fifteen minutes later he’s opening the door to the apartment. He peels off his coat, toes off his shoes, drops his briefcase on the side table, and peers anxiously into the living room. Nope. Not there. _Where are you?_ He hears the door to the guest bath open and his stomach drops when he sees her gripping the door frame with one hand. She’s clad in a shimmery, pale blue nightie and her hair is knotted in a twist. Damp tendrils frame her completely back-to-normal, precious face and he stares at her in wonder. _You’re here. You’re here. Whole_. _In one piece. I can’t believe it._ A current of pure, exalted love rushes through him and spreads to the outermost and tiniest capillary reaches of his body, pouring into him. As he walks toward his future he’s keenly aware of the sound his socked feet make as they thump against the hardwood floor.

She releases the door frame and regards him shyly but soon the hammering in her chest propels her forward. Her outstretched arms are an invitation he can't resist and when he feels her delicate fingers in his hands he pulls her toward him, wrapping himself around her body. He’s warm and sweet and solid and _real_ and she melts into him. It’s such a relief to have his arms around her again, to feel as if she’s finally home. As he pulls her close to him, she forgets everything except the strength of his arms, the tenderness of his touch, and the way her heart beats faster, threatening to leap out of her chest.

She pulls back to look up into his eyes and he frames her face with his hands, his eyes fairly burning through her. His expression—of unbridled desire and love and affection—makes her stomach do a somersault. She watches, fascinated, as his gaze settles on her lips and when her tongue darts out to moisten them he bends his head down and brushes his lips against hers. Every nerve ending in her body lights up like a Christmas tree. The kiss is achingly sweet, but it's too cautious to assuage the longing of so many months’ standing: it only sharpens her desire for the deep, devouring, consuming sensation of having his tongue in her mouth, so she grabs the back of his head, and that’s all it takes for Will to lose control. His lips crash down on hers, possessive and wild. If the earlier kiss was gentle and tentative, this one is something else altogether—the difference between lighting a candle and igniting a bonfire. _This_ kiss stakes a claim. His teeth nibble at her lower lip, probing and questing, stimulating and provoking her until she gasps and surrenders her mouth to his possession. She raises her hands to grip his shoulders as if he’s the only solid thing in the world, and indeed, he is, because for her there is nothing else—there is only him and the way he makes her feel. She teases his lips, caresses his tongue with hers and her desire, already kindling from his nearness and his touch, flares into a conflagration that consumes her. His groan echoes hers as he catches her hips and pulls her tightly against his arousal.

Dinner is forgotten, everything in the universe is forgotten as he lifts her up and she wraps her legs around his waist. He swears softly as it registers that she’s not wearing _anything_ beneath her blue nightie and that the silky skin of her bare ass is hot in his hands. “ _Billy_ ,” she whispers as she feels his hands sensuously moving up her hips to push the shift up around her waist. He caresses her bottom with his fingers, sending spikes of anticipation throughout her bloodstream and the only words in her mind are _yes, yes, more, more, I need you, I love you, I love you._

He carries her down the hall toward their bedroom and though he considers kicking the door open with his foot he settles for supporting her weight with one hand and using the other to turn the knob. The room is dark but there’s a roaring fire in the gas fireplace (ignited by an app he’d used on his way home) and the path to the bed is illuminated by little battery-powered candles. She looks around, delighted: hundreds of rose petals are strewn on the coverlet and a bottle of champagne is chilling in an electric ice bucket. He’s never gone in for this kind of crap, himself, but he’s happy to indulge her and the way she tightens her legs around his waist lets him know he made the right call. She starts trying to rip his shirt off right then and he can only laugh. “Easy, honey, easy.” He sets her down on the bed and starts to unbutton his shirt but before he can undo the first button she tackles him and pushes him down on his back. She pulls his shirt out of his waistband, helps him back into a seated position and places her two hands on either shirt panel. She pulls them apart as hard as she can and buttons rain down on the hardwood floor on either side of the bed. He grins as she tugs the shirt off his shoulders and tosses it on the floor but when he reaches out to caress her shoulders she swats his hands away: _not yet. Not yet._ She is a woman possessed and every impulse in her body is focused on one thing: getting him inside her.

He helps her get his t-shirt off and then his pants, socks and boxers and when she finally, finally has him where she needs him her gaze locks onto his. The expression in his eyes is a mix of lust and affection and she's determined to rout out the latter so she rubs her core against him—making him groan aloud and soon he's begging for a reprieve, his pupils blown wide with lust: “Enough," he tells her. "Enough." He places his hands on her hips and she slowly, deftly, agonizingly, begins to rock against him. Each maddening micro thrust seems expressly designed to make him lose his mind and when he's unable to stand the torment a moment longer he anchors her hips with both hands, presses his fingers into her flesh and surges into her. The dam broken, she begins to work herself into a frenzy of passion and sensation but it’s not enough for Will: he needs more. Much more. He needs to claim her irrevocably as his own because she belongs to him and he to her and he’s going to make damned sure she knows it. He flips her over onto her back and drives into her. She cries out but soon gives herself over to the sensation because nothing turns her on more than Will’s possessive, primitive side. His lips soon reach the place where her heart beats wildly and her skin welcomes the torturous touch of his mouth which licks, tastes, savours, and then closes around her nipple. She covers her mouth with her hand, muffling another cry as he moves within her, slowly, sensuously building her up, up, up.

She keens in pleasure when his hand migrates to her core. He continues to conquer her skin with his lips, his tongue, and his teeth, satiating his urge while his fingers conquer the spot—warm and moist—where all her senses are gathered. His mouth captures hers again, possessively, his tongue duelling with hers then conquering her mouth while his fingers continue their torturous, daring movements. He strokes her mercilessly, methodically, withdrawing and plunging into her over and over again, his thrusts hard and deep and slow and steady and expressly designed to take her to heights no other man has ever come close to taking her. She bites her lip to keep from crying out as he surges into her again and again, harder and harder, deeper and deeper, an expression of absolute love on his face. He feels as if he’s on fire, burning up with everything he feels for her. It’s such sweet, sweet relief to be inside her again. Such beautiful, tender, sweet relief. _I love you, I love you, I love you_.

Everything between them is conveyed with the mouth, the dampness, the tongue, the fingers, the locked bodies, the murmured frenzied words, the moans, the deep breaths. Each thrust is a hammer blow of joy. She winds her fingers in his hair and leans into his kiss, moaning low and husky in the back of her throat and he feels like a man dying of thirst suddenly offered clean, fresh water. He inhales the soft, sensual heat of her mouth as she flows like silk around him and when she presses her breasts into the hard muscles of his chest his movements grow more frantic, desperate to take her farther than she’s ever gone.

The first wave of bliss takes her unaware and her body tenses as coherent thought evaporates like fog in sunlight. He slams into her harder and harder, faster and faster and she hears her name whispered into her ear, a chant he repeats as he grips her flesh hard and surges into her. _Yes, yes, yes._ Everything disappears around her and he feels her clamp down on him hard as she comes apart beneath him. He roars his release, convulsing inside her, filling her in a series of brutal pulses that seem to rob him of every ounce of strength. Each thrust makes her mind explode with a single thought: _I love you, I love you_.

At last, he stills and rolls off her. He draws her close, his arm around her waist and she covers the hand that rests on her stomach with her own. She twines her fingers with his, murmuring “I love you," as she comes down. Though he can do no more than utter her name in response, his throat choked with the vastness of the emotion that overwhelms him, he knows that as long as he can hear her voice he will happily follow wherever she leads. He is overflowing, desperately in love with her as he never has been with anyone. When he regains the use of his vocal cords he tells her just that in words that are halting, stumbling and full of feeling. He has never been so helpless, nor so whole—desperately hungry and wondrously sated all at once. Will there ever be an end to it? To loving her? Will he one day reach the final depth of that emotion? He hopes not.

"Promise me something," she murmurs, burrowing into him.

"Anything."

"Promise me you'll never let anything come between us again."

It's easy enough to fulfill that request and indeed, he will remember this moment for the rest of his life, the one in which he vows to do whatever it takes to protect their bond. He will only have to consciously remind himself of it twice in the coming years but each time it will help pull them back from the brink. "Never," he says now, dipping his head to nuzzle her ear. "Never." He puts all his weight on the arm in front of her and nudges her to lie on her back. He covers her body with his own, his warm, solid weight pressing her into the mattress. "Never," he repeats, framing her face with his hands and dotting her skin with kisses. He stares down at her with passion-drugged eyes and his expression is filled with such naked devotion tears momentarily blur her vision.

"Promise me we'll always have this," she whispers, staring up at him. "That we'll always have _us_." She doesn't have to spell it out for him because he knows exactly what she means _:_ a marriage in every sense of the word.

"Always," he answers. "I love you."

"I love you, too," she says, kissing him. Emotionally, they are soldered together—a single entity with a single mind. In the hours and days and weeks to come, he pours his passion into her over and over and over again and she is lost to him. Such a man. Such a glorious, perfect, beautiful man. She loves him. She loves him. She loves him. He fills her with indescribable joy. If she could have but one wish it would be to never leave his side.

Because she’s where she’s meant to be: home.


End file.
